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Public Library
Kansas City, Mo.
JThe BlueJRidge Country is the land of the Con
and the Blue Ridge hilji
ughout America Jean Thomas is known fi
e of the mountain people and their wa&gt;
:t stenographer in the mountains of Ke:
tucky, accompanying the Circuit Judge and lawye
from one court to another, in a jolt wagon, lor
before the days of improved highways, she acquire
from the mountainpeople,thg. name of Traipsij
In Blue Ridge Country she has written a boc
1 which is the fruit of years of intimate acquaintanc
[with the land and its people. I
BLUE RIDGE COUN TRY
:A M ir:i CA^ :F;OL K w A YS
* * * * / *"****
dked Jlpy; I^sjtf NE CALDWELL
COUNTRY by Edwin Corle
PINON COUNTRY by Haniel Long
SHORT GRASS COUNTRY by Stanley Vestal
OZARK COUNTRY by Otto Ernest Rayburn
SLUE RIDGE COUNTRY by Jean Thomas
In Preparation
PALMETTO COUNTRY by Stetson Kennedy
MORMON COUNTRY by Wallace Stegner
HIGH BORDER COUNTRY by Eric Thane
Books by JEAN THOMAS
DEVIL S DITTIES
THE TRAIPSIN* WOMAN
THE SINGIN FIDDLER OF LOST HOPE HOLLOW
BALLAD MAKIN* IN THE MOUNTAINS OF KENTUCKY
BIG SANDY
THE SUN SHINES BRIGHT
THE SINGIN GATHERIN*-In collaboration with Joseph A.
Leeder, Professor of Music, Ohio State University
THOMAS
"^// rights reserved* including
the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in aity form.
SPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To My Brother
DOCTOR GEORGE G. BELL
A once itinerant "Tooth Dentist"
who became the first Republican county judge
in more than a quarter of a century
at the mouth of Big Sandy
and whose unique sentences have become legendary
throughout the Blue Ridge
: APPALACHIAN RITUAL
Emerald nobility
Reaching to the sky,
Makes the eye a ruler
Fit to measure by.
In the spring an ecstasy
Lies upon the hills-
Purpling with new red-buds,
Ruffling colored frills.
Make an early ritual
For the mountain side;
Pine and beech are spectators,
White dogwood a bride.
Give a pair of ivory birch
For a wedding gift,
All the mountain side a church
Where wild flowers sift
Velvet carpet-petals down
To the edge of hill and town,
Showing wild-grape fringes through
Opal cloud-thrones dropped from blue.
Now the summer like a queen
Does her mountain home in green;
With a season for a bier
Some old majesty lies here.
Autumn gold is swift and fleet
With a wing upon the feet,
Rushing toward a winter breath
Pausing for immaculate death.
In such economic bliss
And a swift parenthesis
In immortal mountain trails,
There are resurrection tales.
All the while the mountains know
Sudden death is never so.
Rachel Mack Wilson
Contents
jr. The Country and th& People 3
THE LAND 3
THE PEOPLE 1O
BLAZING THE TRAIL l6
THE MOUNTAINEER 40
2,. Land of Feuds and Stills 46
HATFIELDS AND MG COYS 46
PEACEMAKER 55
TAKING SIDES 73
MARTIN-TOLLIVER TROUBLES 91
FAMILY HONOR 105
3. Products of the Soil 1 1 %
TIMBER 112
WOMAN S WORK 1 1 7
4. Tradition 122
PHILOMEL WHIFFET S SINGING SCHOOL 122
RIDDLES AND FORTUNES 135
THE INFARE WEDDING 151
5. Religious Customs 155
FUNERALIZING 155
OLD CHRISTMAS 158
FOOT-WASHING 1 6 1
NEW LIGHT 164
Contents
6. Superstition 168
BIG SANDY RIVER l68
WATER WITCH 169
MARRYING ON HORSEBACK I*J2
DEATH CROWN 1*7 7
A WHITE FEATHER 178
7. Legend 180
CROCKETT S HOLLOW 1 80
THE SILVER TOMAHAWK l86
BLACK CAT 189
THE DEER WOMAN AND THE FAWN 1Q4
GHOST OF DEVIL ANSE 1Q9
THE WINKING CORPSE 2Og
THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN GABLES 205
8. Singing on the Mountain Side 210
OF LAND AND RIVER 2 1O
FEUD 2l6
LEGEND 2 1 8
TRAGEDY 228
PATRIOT 239
9. Reclaiming the Wilderness 248
VANISHING FEUDIST 248
SILVER MOON TAVERN 250
BLOOMING STILLS 255
LEARNING 258
MOUNTAIN MEN 269
COAL 273
PUBLIC WORKS 274
BACK TO THE FARM 283
VALLEY OF PARKS gOl
WHEN -SINGING COMES IN, FIGHTING GOES
OUT 317
VANISHING TRAIL 337
Index 331
BLUE RIDGE COUNTRY
1. The Country and the People
THE LAND
HIGH mountain walls and bridgeless streams ma
rooned the people of the Blue Ridge for centuries,
shut them off from the outside world so that they lost step
with the onward march of civilization. A forgotten people
until yesterday, unlettered, content to wrest a meager liv
ing from the grudging soil, they built for themselves a
nation within a nation. By their very isolation, they have
preserved much of the best that is America. They have
held safe and unchanged the simple beauty o the song of
their fathers, the unsullied speech, the simple ideals and
traditions, staunch religious faith, love of freedom, courage
and fearlessness. Above all they have maintained a spirit
of independence and self-reliance that is unsurpassed any
where in these United States of America. They are a hardy
race. The wilderness, the pure air, the rugged outdoor life
have made them so: a people in whom the Anglo-Saxon
strain has retained its purest line. ,
The Blue Ridge Country comprises much of Appa-
lachia, happily called from the great chain that runs along
the Atlantic coast from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the
Gulf of Mexico. It is a well-watered region having numer
ous streams and rivers throughout, being drained by the
Cumberland and Tennessee as well as by smaller, though
3
Blue Ridge Country
equally well-known, rivers Big Sandy in northeastern
Kentucky, which flows into the Ohio, and the Yadkin in
North Carolina, which eventually reaches the Atlantic
Ocean.
In general the region includes three parallel chains, the
Cumberlands, Alleghenies, and Blue Ridge. Like a giant
backbone the Blue Ridge, beginning in the southwest por
tion of Old Virginia, continues northeasterly, holding to
gether along its mountainous vertebrae some eight south
ern states; northeastern Kentucky, all of West Virginia,
the eastern part of Tennessee, western North Carolina, the
four northwestern counties of South Carolina, and strag
gling foothills in northern Georgia and northeastern Ala
bama. The broad valley of the Tennessee River separates
the mountain system on the west from the Cumberland
Plateau which is an extension of the West Virginia and
Kentucky roughs.
Throughout its vast course the Blue Ridge is not cut by
a single river. A narrow rampart, it rises abruptly on its
eastern side south of the Potomac to a height of some two
thousand feet, cutting Virginia into eastern and western,
and descends as abruptly on the west to the Shenandoah
Valley, Similar in topography in its rough, broken steep
ness to the Alleghenies across the valley, it consists of a
multitude of saddles or dividing ridges many of which
attain an elevation of six thousand feet. As it extends
south, rising from the Piedmont Plateau, it grows higher.
In North Carolina alone there are twenty-one peaks that
exceed Mt. Washington s six thousand feet in New Hamp
shire. Contiguous to the Blue Ridge there is another chain
between the states of North Carolina and Tennessee,
which to Carolina mountaineers is still the Alleghenies.
However, the United States Geological Survey has another
The Country and the People
name for it the Unakas. It is higher as a whole than the
Blue Ridge to which it is joined by transverse ranges with
such names as Beech and Balsam and a sprinkling of In
dian names Cowee, Nantahala, Tusquitee. It differs, too,
in physical aspect. Instead of being in orderly parallel
tiers the entire system, unlike the Blue Ridge, is cut by
many rivers; the Nolichucky, French Broad, Pigeon, Little
Tennessee, Hiawassee. The parts so formed by the divid
ing rivers are also named: Iron, Northern Unaka, Bald,
Great Smoky, Southern Unaka or Unicoi. Though many
of its summits exceed six thousand feet, the chain itself
dwindles to foothills by the time it reaches Georgia and
crosses into Alabama.
If you flew high over the vast domain of the Blue Ridge,
you would view a country of contrasting physical features:
river and cascade, rapids and waterfall, peak and plateau,
valley and ridge. Its surface is rougher, its trails steeper,
the descents deeper, and there are more of them to the
mile than anywhere else in the United States.
The southern mountaineer has to travel many steep,
rocky roads to get to any level land, so closely are the
mountains of Appalachia crowded together. It is the geog
raphy of their country that has helped to keep our high-
landers so isolated all these years.
This region has the finest body of hardwood timber in
the United States. Black walnut is so plentiful and so easy
for the carpenter to work that this wood has been used
freely for gunstocks and furniture, and even in barns,
fences, and porches.
White and yellow poplars grow sometimes six to nine
feet in diameter. "Wide enough for a marrying couple,
their waiters, and the elder to stand on," a mountaineer
will say, pointing out a tree stump left smooth by the cross-
Blue Ridge Country
cut saw. The trunks are sixty to seventy feet to the first
limb. Chestnuts are even wider, though sometimes not so
tall. White oaks grow to enormous size. Besides pine, and
the trees common generally to our country, these southern
mountain forests are filled with buckeye, gum, basswood,
cucumber, sourwood, persimmon, lynn. The growth is so
heavy that there are few bare rocks or naked cliffs. Even
the "bald" peculiar to the region which is sometimes
found on the crown of a mountain belies its name, for it
is covered with grassnot of the useless sage type either,
but an excellent grass on which sheep might "use" if they
chose to climb so high.
The lover of beauty .finds delight in these mountains
from the first daintiness of spring on through the glorious
blaze of wonder that is fall in the Blue Ridge. Beginning
with the tan fluff of the beeches, the red flowering of ma
ples, the feathery white blooms of the "sands," on through
the redbud s gaiety and the white dogwood s stark purity,
all is loveliness. The enchantment continues in the flame
of azaleas, which is followed by the waxy pink of the
laurel and the superb glory of the rhododendron. These
have scarcely vanished before the coves are golden with
the fragrance of grape blossom.
The beauty of the woodland is a paradise for birds.
Early in the spring the spotted thrush wings its way
through leafy boughs. The cardinal in his bright red coat
stays the year round. Neither snow nor winter wind dulls
his plumage or stills his song. His mate, in somber green,
sings too, but he, unmindful of southern chivalry, attacks
her furiously when she bursts into song; ornithologists
explain that jealousy prompts the ungallant act. The
oriole singing lustily in the spring would seem conscious
of his coat of orange and black. These are the heraldic
The Country and the People
colors worn by the servants of Lord Baltimore. The night
ingale and the whippoorwill sing unpretentiously in the
quiet of eventide. The blackbird makes up for his somber
dress in good deeds. He destroys insects on leaf and bark.
The eagle still finds a haven of safety in giant trees and
hollowed trunks.
There is neither tarantula nor scorpion to be feared in
the Blue Ridge; the harmless lizard is called scorpion by
the mountaineer. Nor are there lalge poisonous reptiles.
There are snakes of lesser caliber, but only rattlers and
copperheads among them are venomous. The highlander
is not bedeviled by biting ants but there are fleas and flies
in abundance though no mosquitoes, thanks to the absence
of stagnant pools and lakes. There are no large lakes as in
the eastern section of the United States and few small ones
though the country has numerous cascades, rapids, and
waterfalls.
The Blue Ridge is a well-watered region, and character
istic of the country are the innumerable springs which
form creeks and small streams. A mild and bracing cli
mate results from these physical features. The rapidity
with which the streams rise and their swiftness, together
with almost constant breezes in the mountains, reduce
the humidity so prevalent in the southern lowlands. Al
though the rainfall is greater than anywhere else in the
United States, except Florida, the sudden fall in the
topography of the watercourses brings quick drainage.
The sun may be scorching hot in an unprotected corn
patch on a hillside, yet it is cool in the shade. And, as in
California and the north woods, a blanket is needed at
night. The climate is contrasting, being coldest in the
highlands where the temperature is almost as low as that
8 Blue Ridge Country
of northern Maine. Yet nowhere in the United States is
it warmer than in the lowlands of the Blue Ridge.
In the highlands, carboniferous rocks produce a sandy
loam which is responsible for the vast timber growth there.
Throughout it is rich in minerals, coal, iron, and even
gold, which has been mined in Georgia. In some sections
there are fertile undulating uplands contrasting with the
quagmired bottoms and rocky uplands of other parts of
the Blue Ridge. There are high and uninviting quaternary
bluffs that lure only the eye. It was the fertile valleys with
their rich limestone soil producing abundant cane that
first proved irresistible to the immigrants of Europe and
lured them farther inland from the Atlantic seaboard.
Long before man came with ax and arrow the wilder
ness of the Blue Ridge teemed with wild animal life. The
bones of mastodon and mammoth remained to attest their
supremacy over an uninhabited land thousands upon
thousands of years ago. Then, following the prehistoric
and glacial period, more recent fauna buffalo, elk, deer,
bear, and wolf made paths through the forest from salt
lick to refreshing spring. These salt licks that had been
deposited by a receding ocean centuries before came to
have names. Big Bone Lick located in what today is Boone
County, Kentucky, was one of the greatest and oldest ani
mal rendezvous in North America, geologists claim. It took
its name doubtless from the variety of bones of prehistoric
and later fauna found imbedded in the salty quagmire.
Man, like beast, sought both salt and water. Following
the animal trails came the mound builder. But when he
vanished, leaving his earthen house and the crude utensils
that filled his simple needs for the mound builder was
not a warrior there was but little of his tradition from
which to reconstruct his life and customs.
The Country and the People
A century passed before the Indian in his trek through
the wilderness followed the path of buffalo and deer. Came
the Shawnee, Cherokee, and Chickasaw to fight and hunt.
To the Indian the Blue Ridge was a favorite hunting
ground with its forests and rolling plains, while the fer
tile valleys with thick canebrakes offered bread in abun
dance. Sometimes these primeval trails which they fol
lowed took their names from the purpose they served. For
instance, the Athiamiowee trail was, in the Miami dialect,
the Path of the Armed Ones or the Armed Path and be
came known as the Warrior s Path. It was the most di
rect line of communication between the Shawnees and the
Cherokees, passing due south across the eastern part of
the Cuttawa country (Kentucky) from the mouth of the
Sciotha (Scioto) to the head of the Cherokee (Tennessee).
Another trail was called Old Buffalo Path, another Lime
stone because of the soil. Then there was a Shawnee Trail
named for the tribe that traversed it.
The Indian was happy and content with his hunting
ground and the fertile fields. The streams he converted
to his use for journeys by canoe. He had his primitive
stone plow to till the soil and his stone mill for grinding
grain. The fur of animals provided warm robes, the
tanned hides gave him moccasins. Tribal traditions were
pursued unmolested, though at times the tribes engaged
in warfare. Each tribe buried its dead in its own way and
when a tribe wearied of one location it moved on. Unlike
the mound builders, the Indian had a picture language
and he delighted to record it in cuttings on rocks and
trees. He would peel the bark from the bole of a tree and
with a sharp stone instrument carve deep into the wood
figures of feather-decked chieftains, of drums, arrows, wild
beasts. And having carved these symbols of the life about
10 Blue Ridge Country
him, depicting scenes of the hunt and battle and conflict,
he covered the carving with paint fashioned in Jhis crude
way from the colored earth on the mountain side. The
warrior like his picture language vanished in time from
the Blue Ridge. But not his trails.
These trails, the path of buffalo and deer and the lines
of communication between the tribes, finally marked the
course of explorer, hunter, and settler. As each in turn
made his way to the wilderness he was glad indeed to find
paths awaiting his footsteps. The scene was set for a rugged
race. They came and stayed.
THE PEOPLE
The men and women who came to settle this region
were a stalwart race, the men usually six feet in height,
the women gaunt and prolific. They were descendants of
English, Scotch, and Scotch-Irish who landed along the
Atlantic coast at the close of the sixteenth century around
*635, when the oppression of rulers drove them from
England, Scotland, and Ireland. Some were impelled by
love of religious freedom, while others sought political
liberty in the new world. Their migration to America
really started with a project, a project that had its begin
ning in Ireland as far back as 1610. It was called the Eng
lish invasion of Ireland. King after king in England had
sent colonists to the Emerald Isle and naturally the native
sons resented their coming. Good Queen Bess in turn con
tinued with the project and tried to keep peace between
the invaders and the invaded by donating lands there to
court favorites. But the bickerings went on. It was not
until after Elizabeth s death that King James I of England
worked out a better project-temporarily at least. He sent
The Country and the People 11
sturdy, stubborn, tenacious Scots to Ulster; their natures
made of them better fighters than the Irish upon whose
lands they had been transplanted. But even though it was
English rulers who had "planted" them there the Scots
were soon put to all sorts of trials and persecution. They
resented heartily the King s levy of tax upon the poteen
which they had learned to make from their adopted Irish
brothers. Resentment grew to hatred of excise laws, hatred
of authority that would enforce any such laws. These
burned deep in the breast of the Scotch-Irish, so deep that
they live to this day in the hearts of their descendants in
the southern mountains.
So political strife, resentment toward governmental au
thority, hatred toward individuals acting for the rulers
developed into feuds. In some such way the making of
poteen and feuds were linked hand-in-hand long before
the Anglo-Celtic and Anglo-Saxon set foot in the wilder
ness of America.
They were pawns of the Crown, used to suppress the
uprisings of the Irish Catholics and in turn themselves
even more unfairly treated by the Crown. They could not
these Presbyterians worship as they chose; rather the
place and form was set by the State. Their ships were
barred from foreign trade, even with America; they were
forbidden to ship products or cattle back to England,
though after the Great Fire of London, Ireland generously
sent thousands of head of cattle to London. Barred then
from engaging in profitable cattle trade, they turned to
growing wool. This too was defeated by prohibitive du
ties, and when Ireland undertook to engage in producing
linen, England thwarted that industry too. They were
forbidden to possess arms, they were expelled from the
militia, and what with incessantly being called upon to
12 Blue Ridge Country
pay tithes, added rents, and cess they had little left to
call their own, little to show for their labors. Then adding
insult to injury, the Crown declared illegitimate the chil
dren born of a marriage performed by the ministers of
these Presbyterians, so that such offspring could not legally
inherit the lands of their parents.
Oppressed and persecuted for a century they could
bear it no longer; these transplanted Scotch-Irish (as
America came to call them) turned their faces to the new
world.
The massacres of 1641 sent them across the uncharted
seas in great numbers. And to stimulate and spur their
continued migration to America these "adventurers" and
"planters" were offered land in Maryland by Lord ; Balti-
more-three thousand acres for every thirty persons
brought into the state, with the provision of "free liberty
of religion/ But Pennsylvania offered a heartier welcome
and "genuine religious liberty" besides.
Oppression and unfairness continued to grow in Ire
land. Protestants there had never owned outright the land
which they struggled to clear and cultivate. Moreover
they toiled without pay. Protest availed them little. And
the straw that broke the camel s back was laid on in the
form of rent by Lord Donegal. In 1717 when their leases
had expired in County Antrim, they found themselves
in a worse predicament than ever. Their rents were
doubled and trebled. Now, to hand over more than two
thirds of what they had after all the other taxes that had
been imposed upon them left them with little or nothing.
How was a man to pay the added rent? Pay or get out! de
manded Lord Donegal. Eviction from the lands which
their toil had developeda wasteland converted into fer
tile productive fieldsstirred these Scotch-Irish to fury.
The Country and the People 13
They didn t sit and tweedle their thumbs. Not the Scotch-
Irish.
In 1719, just two years after the Antrim Eviction, thirty
thousand more Protestants left Ulster for America. They
continued to come for the next half century, settling in
various parts of our land. There was a goodly settlement
in the Virginia Valley of Scotch-Irish. You d know by their
names Grigsby, Caruthers, Crawford, and McCuen.
As early as 1728 a sturdy Scot from Ulster, by name
Alexander Breckinridge, was settled in the Shenandoah
Valley, though later he was to be carried with the tide of
emigration that led to Kentucky.
Naturally, first come first served so the settlers who
arrived first on the scene chose for themselves the more
accessible and fertile lands, the valleys and rich limestone
belts at the foot of the Blue Ridge and the Alleghenies.
The Proprietors of Pennsylvania, who had settled on vast
tracts, were prevailed upon by the incoming Scotch-Irish
to sell them parts of their lands. The newcomers argued
that it was "contrary to the laws of God and nature that
so much land should lie idle when Christians wanted it
to labor on and raise their bread." But that wasn t the
only reason the Scotch -Irish had. There were other things
in the back of their heads. A burnt child fears the fire.
Their unhappy experience in Ulster had taught them a
bitter lesson and one they should never forget, not even
to the third and fourth generation. They would not be
renters! Hadn t they been tricked out of land in Ulster?
They would not rent! They would buy outright. And buy
they did from the Proprietors at a nominal figure. Nor
were the Pennsylvanians blind to the fact that the new
comers were good fighters and that they could act as a
barrier against Indian attacks on the settlement s fringe.
14 Blue Ridge Country
There was still a fly in the ointment for the Scotch-Irish.
That was the Proprietors* exacting from them an annual
payment of a few cents per acre. It wasn t so much the
amount that irked the newcomers as the legal hold on
their land it gave the Proprietors. They objected stoutly
and didn t give up their protest until their perseverance
put an end to the system of "quitrents."
This cautious characteristic persists to this day with the
mountaineer and can be traced back to the persecution
of his forbears in Ulster. Mountaineers in Kentucky re
fused point-blank to accept fruit trees offered them gratis
by a legislator in 1913, fearing it would give the state a
hold on their land.
But to get back to the settling of the Blue Ridge Coun
try.
When political and religious refugees continued to
come to America in such vast shoals they found the settle
ments along the Atlantic coast already well occupied by
Huguenots who had been driven from France, by Quakers,
Puritans, and Catholics from England, Palatine Germans
escaping the scourge of the Thirty Years War. Here too
were Dunkers, Mennonites, Moravians from Holland and
Germany. Among them also were followers of Cromwell
who had fled the vengeance of Charles II, Scots of the
Highlands who could not be loyal to the Stuarts and at
the same time friends to King George.
The Scotch-Irish among the newcomers wanted land of
their own independence. Above all independence. So
they drifted down the coast to the western fringe of settle
ment and established themselves in the foothills east of the
Blue Ridge in what is now the Carolinas. Migration might
just as well have moved west from Virginia and across the
Alleghenies. However, not only did the mountains them-
The Country and the People 15
selves present an impenetrable barrier, but settlers were
forbidden to cross by "proclamation of the authorities"
on account of the hostility of the Indians on the west of
the mountain range. Then too there were inviting fertile
valleys on this eastern side o the Blue Ridge, where they
might dwell,
But these newcomers, at least the Scotch-Irish among
them, were not primarily men who wanted to till the soil.
They were not by nature farmers like the Germans in
Pennsylvania. And they did not intend to become under
lings of their more prosperous predecessors and neighbors
who had already taken root in the valleys and who had
set up projects to further their own gains. Furthermore,
being younger in the new world they were more adven
turous. The wilderness with its hunting and exploring
beckoned. And so they pressed on deeper into the moun
tains. There was s always more room the higher up they
climbed. And as they moved on they carried along with
them, as a surging stream gathers up the life along its
course, a sprinkling of all the various denominations
whose lives they touched among the settlements along the
coast.
In that day many men were so eager for freedom and
a chance to get a fresh start that before sailing, through
the enterprises set up by shipowners and emigration
agents, they bound themselves by written indentures to
work for a certain period of time. These persons were
called Indents. Their labor was sold, so that in reality
they were little more than slaves. When finally they had
worked out their time they had earned their freedom, and
were called Redemptioners. The practice of selling Re-
demptioners continued until the year 1820, all of forty-
four years after "Honest" John Hart had signed his name
16 Blue Ridge Country
to the Declaration of Independence. It is said that a
lineal descendant of Emperor Maximilian was so bound
in Georgia.
Many were imposed upon in another way. Their bag
gage and possessions were often confiscated and even
though friends waited on this side ready to pay their
passage, innocent men and women were duped into sale.
Then there were the so-called convicts among the
pioneers of the Blue Ridge. It must be remembered that
in those days offense constituting crime was often a mere
triviality. Men were imprisoned for debt; even so they
were labeled convicts. But, as Dr. James Watt Raine as
sures us in his The Land of Saddle-Bags, the few such
convicts who were sent by English judges to America
could scarcely have produced the five million or more
people who today are known as southern mountain people.
Widely different though they were in blood, speech,
and customs, there was an underlying similarity in the
nature of these pioneers. It was their love of independ
ence. Independence that impelled them to give up the
security of civilization to brave the perils of uncharted
seas, the hazards of warfare with hostile Indians, to seek
homes in an untamed wilderness.
BLAZING THE TRAIL
Sometimes a single explorer went ahead of the rest with
a few friendly Indians to accompany him. If not he went
alone, tramping into the forest, living in a rough shack,
suffering untold hardship through bitter winter months.
For weeks when he had neither meal nor flour he lived
on meat alone deer and bear. It was the stories of valu
able furs and the vast quantities of them which trickled
The Country and the People 17
back to the settlements that lured others to follow. Hun
ters and trappers came bringing their families. The stories
of furs and the promise of greater possessions to be had
in the wilderness grew and so did the number of adven
turers. They began to form little settlements and their
coming crowded before them the earlier hunter or trapper
who wanted always the field to himself.
In the meantime settlers in the Valley of Virginia were
growing more smug and prosperous. They wanted to in
vest part of their earnings. They wanted to set up other
undertakings. So they began sending out expeditions into
the wilderness with the intention of trading with the In
dians and possibly of securing lands for settlers.
As early as 1673 young Gabriel Arthur had set out on
an expedition for his master Colonel Abraham Wood of
Virginia with a small party. Through the Valley of Vir
ginia went the young adventurer, taking the well-defined
Warrior s Path; he followed watercourses and gaps that
cut through high mountain walls, down the Holston River
through Tennessee, through the "great gap" into the Cut-
tawa country. Finally separated from his companions, the
lad lost all count of time. Even if he had had a calendar
tucked away in the pocket of his deerskin coat, however,
it would have done him no good for he could neither read
nor write. Weeks and months passed. Winter came. Finally
after many adventures young Arthur started on the long
journey back to Virginia. As he drew near Colonel Wood s
home he heard merriment within and the voice of his
master wishing his household a merry Christmas. Not till
then did the young adventurer know how long he had
been away.
With the master and the household and the friends who
had gathered to celebrate and offer thanks at the Yuletide
18 Blue Ridge Country
season, with all listening eagerly, young Gabriel Arthur,
though unable to bring back any written record, told
many a stirring tale. A swig of wine may have spurred
the telling of how he had been captured by the Shawnees
(in Ohio), of how he had been surrounded by a wild,
shouting tribe who tied him to a stake and were about
to put a flaming torch to his feet when he thought of a
way to save his life. They were charmed with the gun he
carried, and the shiny knife at his belt. If they d set him
free he promised to bring them many, many knives and
guns. Once young Gabriel made his escape he didn t in
tend to be caught napping again. He painted his fair face
with wild berry juice, and color from bark and herbs.
After much wandering he found himself with friendly
Cherokees in the upper Tennessee Valley. They were so
friendly, in fact, that a couple of them accompanied him
on his return to Virginia. He returned along other water
coursesby way of the Rockcastle and Kentucky Rivers.
He crossed the Big Sandy the Indians called it Chat-
terawha and Totteroy. He got out of their canoe at a
point where the Totteroy flows into the Ohio and stood
on the bank and looked about at the far-off hills. So it
was young Gabriel Arthur who was the first white man
to set foot in Kentucky, and that at the mouth of the Big
Sandy.
Young Gabriel s tales traveled far. Soon others, fired
with the spirit of adventure, were turning to the wilder
ness. Nor was adventure the only spur. Investors as well
as hunters and trappers saw promise of profits in Far
Appalachia. Cartographers were put to work. A glimpse
at. their drawings shows interesting and similar observa
tions.
In 1697 Louis Hennepin s map indicated the territory
The Country and the People 19
south of the Great Lakes, including the southern Appa
lachians and extending as far west as the Mississippi River
and a route which passed through a "gap across the Appa
lachians to the Atlantic seaboard/ Later the map of a
Frenchman named Delisle labeled the great continental
path leading to the Carolinas "Route que les Francois,"
Successive maps all showed the passing over the Cumber
land Mountain at the great wind gap, indicating portages
and villages of the Chaouanona (Shawnees) in the river
valleys. Lewis Evans map in 1755 of "The Middle British
Colonies in America J shows the courses o the Totteroy
(Big Sandy River) and of the Kentucky River. Thomas
Hutchins in 1788, who became a Captain in the 6oth
Royal American Regiment of Foot, was appointed Geog
rapher General under General Nathanael Greene and had
unusual opportunity to observe geographically the vast
wilderness beyond the Alleghenies. On his map the Ken
tucky River (where Boone was to establish a fort) was
called the Cuttawa, the Green River was the Buffalo, the
Cumberland was indicated as Shawanoe, and , the Ten
nessee was the Cherokee. Though there were numerous
trails in the Cumberland plateau, the Geographer Gen
eral indicated only one, the Warrior s Path which he
called the "Path to the Cuttawa Country." He too showed
the Gap in the "Ouasioto" Mountains leading to the
Cuttawa Country.
With the increase of map-making, more projects were
launched. There were large colonizing schemes to induce
settlement along the frontier, but colonizing was not the
only idea in the heads of the wealthy Virginia investors.
They were not unmindful of the riches in furs to be
garnered in the Blue Ridge. In this connection Dr.
Thomas Walker s expedition for the Loyal Land Company
20 Blue Ridge Country
in 1750 was important. Dr. Walker, an Englishman, was
sent into what is now Kentucky where the company had
a grant of "eight hundred thousand acres." A man could
buy fifty acres for five shillings sterling, the doctor ex
plained. He was not only a physician but a surveyor as
well, and primarily the purpose of these early expeditions
was suweying to lay out the boundaries of the land to
be sold to incoming settlers. Such an expedition was com
posed usually of some six or eight men each equipped
with horse, dog, and gun. Fortunately the doctor-surveyor
was not illiterate like young Gabriel Arthur. Walker set
down an interesting account of the expedition which was
especially glowing from the trader s point of view. In their
four months in the wilderness the Walker expedition
killed, aside from buffalo, wild geese, and turkeys, fifty-
three bears and twenty deer. And the doctor added that
they could have trebled the number. Walker followed the
Warrior s Path as young Gabriel Arthur had more than
seventy years before. The rivers they crossed, as well as
the places on the way which were sometimes no more than
salt licks, bore Indian names. But when Dr. Walker
reached the great barrier between Kentucky and Virginia
he was so deeply moved by the vastness and grandeur of
the mountains that he called his companions about him.
"It is worthy of a noble name," said Dr. Walker. "Let us
call it Cumberland for our Duke in far-off England."
When the expedition reached the gap that permitted them
to pass through into the Cuttawa country he cried ex
ultantly, "This too shall be named for our Duke." So
Cumberland Gap it became and the mountain known to
pioneers as Laurel Mountain became instead Cumberland
Mountain.
The doctor-surveyor could not know that one day he
ne ^.ouniry ana me reopie
would be hailed as "the first white man in Cumberland
Gap" by those sturdy settlers who were to follow his
course. When Dr. Walker reached the Indians Totteroy
River, or rather the two forks that combine to make it,
he called the stream to the right, which touched West
Virginia soil, Louisa or Levisa for the wife of the Duke
of Cumberland.
This leader of the expedition of the Loyal Land Com
pany jotted down much that he saw. There was the amaz
ing "burning spring" that shot up right out of the earth,
its flame so brilliant the doctor could read his map by
the glow at a distance of several miles. Apparently he was
not concerned with the cause but rather with the effect
of the burning spring. He saw the painted picture lan
guage of the Indians on mountain side and tree trunk.
Dr. Walker returned on a second expedition in 1758,
but he gained only partial knowledge of the wilderness
land. However, the mountain he named determined the
course of the trail which was to be laid out by Daniel
Boone, and the gap through which he passed became the
gateway for thousands of horizon-seekers.
Their coming was not without hazard.
The southern Indians resented the invasion of their
hunting ground by the English. The French-Indians in
cited by the French settlers in the Mississippi Valley who
wanted the wealth of fur-bearing animals for themselves,
began to swoop down on the settlements of the English-
speaking people along the frontier, massacring them by
the hundreds.
The Assembly in Philadelphia turned a deaf ear to the
frontiersmen s plea for help, so the Scotch-Irish, accus
tomed to fighting for their rights, organized companies of
Rangers to defend themselves against the attacks of the
22 Blue Ridge Country
Indians. With continued massacre of their people their
desperation grew. If they could have no voice in govern
mental matters in Pennsylvania and could expect no pro
tection from that source against the warring Indians, they
could move on. They did. On down the Valley of Virginia
they came into Carolina. They built their little cabins,
planted crops, and by 1764 had laid out two townships,
one of which, Mecklenburg, figured in an important way
in America s independence.
As each settlement became more thickly settled the
more venturesome spirits pressed on into the mountains.
And as they moved forward, clearing forests and planting
ground for their bread, they dislodged hunters and trap
pers who had preceded them. For all of them there was
always the troublesome Indian to be reckoned with. A
cunning warrior, he pounced upon the newcomer at most
unexpected times. To maintain a measure of safety the
pioneer began to build block houses and forts along the
watercourses traveled by the Indians. Fur-trading posts
were set up by the Crown but even when the Indian
seemed satisfied with the exchange he might take prisoner
a trader or explorer and subject him to torture, or even
put him to death. The homes of settlers were objects of
constant attack. It would take white men of more cun
ning than the Indian to deal with him: fearless and daring
fighters.
About the time Dr. Walker had started on his expedi
tion in 1755, a family living in Pennsylvania packed up
their belongings and moved down into the Valley of Vir
ginia. There were the father, his sons, and his brothers.
They hadn t stayed long in Rockingham County, barely
long enough to raise a crop, when they moved again. This
time they journeyed on down to the valley of the Yadkin
The Country and the People 23
River in North Carolina and there they stayed. All but one
sonDaniel Boone, a lad of eighteen. Even as a boy he
had roamed the woods alone, and once was lost for days.
When his father and friends found him, guided by a
stream of smoke rising in the distance, Daniel wasn t in
tears. Instead, seated on the pelt of a wild animal he had
killed and roasting a piece of its meat at the fire, he was
whistling gaily. He had made for himself a crude shelter
of branches and pelts. It was useless to chide his son, the
older Boone found out. So he saved his ,breath and let
Daniel roam at his will. Soon the boy was exploring and
hunting farther and farther into the mountains.
On one such venture the young hunter alone "cilled
a bar" and left the record of his feat carved with his hunt
ing knife upon a tree. His imagination was fired with the
tales of warfare about him, of the courage and independ
ence of the men who dwelt far up in the mountains. He
knew of the heroism of George Washington who, four
years after the Boones left Pennsylvania, had led a com
pany of mountain men against the French. He had heard
the stories of how Washington had been driven back with
his mountain men at Great Meadows. Boone longed to
be in the thick of the fray. So in 1755, when General
Braddock came to "punish the French for their insolence"
and Washington accompanied him with one hundred
mountain men from North Carolina, Daniel Boone, for
all his youth, was among themas brave a fighter and as
skilled a shot as the best.
This was high adventure for young Daniel. It spurred
him to further daring, and he set out on more and more
distant explorations. Each time he returned from his trips
with marvelous tales of what he had seen, of unbelievable
numbers of buffalo and deer and wild beasts he had en-
24 Blue Ridge Country
countered. He always had an audience. No one listened
with greater eagerness than the pretty dark-eyed daughter
of the Bryans who were neighbors to the Boones. Daniel
was still a young man, only twenty-three, when in 1755
he married Rebecca Bryan. They had five sons and four
daughters. Rebecca stayed home and took care of the
children, while her adventurous husband continued to
rove and hunt on long expeditions.
Neighbors gossiped, even in a pioneer settlement. They
said Daniel wasn t nice to Rebecca, going away all the
time on such long hunting trips. They even talked to
Rebecca about her careless husband. But Rebecca paid
little heed, though she may have chided him in private
for returning so tattered. Sometimes his hunting coat,
which was a loose frock with a cape made from dressed
deerskin, would literally be tied together when he re
turned. Even the fringe which Rebecca had painstakingly
cut to trim his leggings and coat had been left hanging
on jagged rocks and underbrush through which he had
dragged himself. His coonskin cap, with the bushy brush
of it hanging down on his neck, was sometimes a sorry
sight. One can hear Rebecca asking, as the hunter removed
his outer garments, "Were there no creeks on your jour
ney?" His leather belt he hung upon a wall peg after he
had oiled it with bear grease. His tomahawk which he
always wore on the right side, and the hunting knife which
he carried on the left with his powder horn and bullet
pouch, he laid carefully aside. He inspected his trusty
flintlock rifle. ... He had slept under cliffs, wrapped in
his buffalo blanket with his dog, with leaves and brush
for a pillow. His thick club of hair had not been untied
in weeks. The chute bark with which it was fastened was
full of chinks. There was something worse. "What are
The Country and the People 25
you scratching for?" Rebecca would pause from stirring
the kettle at the hearth, to survey her husband who was
digging his fingers into his scalp. "Lice!" gasped Rebecca.
Instead of jowering, she would give him a good scrubbing,
comb out his matted hair, and clean him up generally and
thoroughly.
Daniel was a restless soul. And every time he returned
home he was more restless. So the Boones moved from
place to place and each time others went along with them.
Daniel had a knack of leadership, but no sooner would
everyone be settled around him than he d pack up and go
to another place. Daniel couldn t be crowded. He had to
have elbow room no matter where he had to go to get it.
In the twenty-five years he spent in North Carolina
Boone cleared ground, cut timber, and built a home many
times and all the while he continued to hunt and explore.
Finally returning from one of his long expeditions he
told glowing tales of another country he had found. Bears
were so thick, and deer, it would take a crew of men to
help him kill them and salvage the rich hides. He per
suaded Rebecca to come along with him and bring the
children. Once more Rebecca packed up their few worldly
goods, while Daniel made sure his guns were well oiled,
his hunting knife whetted, his dogs fit for the journey
they meant as much to Boone as wife and children, gossips
said and the family started for a new home.
This time, in 1760, they went far from the Yadkin
into the Watauga country of Tennessee. He crossed the
Blue Ridge and the Unakas, and settled in what was then
western North Carolina, now eastern Tennessee. That
year he led a company as far westward as Abingdon, Vir
ginia. But no sooner were they settled than Daniel up
and left to go deeper into the forest.
26 Blue Ridge Country
Not only was he a great hunter, he was a good advance
agent. Soon, through his glowing accounts, the fame of
the country spread far, even to Pennsylvania and Virginia.
Hunters came to join him. Some stayed with him wher
ever he went. It was through his leadership that the first
permanent settlement was made in Tennessee in 1768.
But to go back a year. In 1767 Boone worked his way
over the Big Sandy Trail in the country which Dr. Walker
had seen back in 1750. Daniel lived alone in a crude hut
on a fork of the Big Sandy River, close to a salt lick, you
may be sure, for he had to have salt to season the wild
meat which was his only food. He too saw the burning
spring that had helped Dr. Walker to scrutinize his maps
at night. In 1768 he entered Kentucky through Cumber
land Gap and traversed the Warrior s Path. From Pilot
Knob he viewed the Great Meadow. That would be some
thing more to tell about when he got back home.
Though his neighbors may have considered him a
shiftless fellow concerned only with hunting and explor
ing, a fellow who was ever moving from pillar to post,
his very first visit to Watauga was not without significance.
It was the way of the wilderness that settlers followed
the first hunters, and Boone with his companions had
been in Watauga first in 1760. Eight years afterward a
few families had followed the hunters 1 trail for good rea
son.
Things had been going miserably for immigrants in
North Carolina. The situation was fast reaching a des
perate point. Some of the oppressed were for violence if
that was needed to obtain justice in the courts. Others
reasoned that there was a better way out. Why not move
away in a body? The wilderness of the Blue Ridge beck
oned. It was under Virginia rule and perhaps life would
The Country and the People 27
not be so hard there. Because of Indian treaties the lands
had been surveyed in those rugged western reaches and
could be legally leased or even purchased. The more level
headed mountain people reasoned in this way: Why not
send one of their number on ahead to look over the re
gion, negotiate for boundaries, and stake them out for
families who decided to take up their abode there? A
Scotch-Irishman named James Robertson took upon him
self this task.
During this period of unrest in North Carolina, Boone
had returned with Rebecca and the children to Watauga
where they found others to welcome them. If indeed
Daniel needed a welcome or wanted it. Again he cleared
a piece of ground and built a log house. But the smoke
no sooner curled up from the chimney than scores of
Scotch-Irish from North Carolina, who could no longer
bear the injustice of government officials, began to crowd
into the valley around him. This irked Daniel, for he
loved the freedom of the wilds. "I ve got to have elbow
room/ he complained to Rebecca, "I know a place"
The Scotch-Irish, however, stayed on in Watauga.
They had had enough of injustice and were glad to
escape a country where the more prosperous were making
life hard for the less fortunate immigrants who continued
to come down the Virginia Valley, and the mountain peo
ple who settled in the rugged western part of the state.
Like their Scotch-Irish brothers in Pennsylvania, they had
determined to find a remedy. They remembered how the
Rangers in the Pennsylvania border settlements had been
forced to take matters in their own hands to protect life
and home, and they organized their protective band called
the Regulators. If armed force was needed, they meant to
use it. They found the Governor as indifferent to their
28 Blue Ridge Country
appeals for fairness as the Pennsylvania Assembly had
been to the Rangers protests. If North Carolina s Gover
nor had been a man of cool and fair judgment, the tragedy
of Alamance might have been averted. On the other hand,
the first decisive step toward American independence
might have been lost, or at least delayed.
In ironic response to the pleas of the Regulators, the
Governor of North Carolina summoned a force of one
thousand militia men and led them into the western set
tlements. At the end of the day, May 16, 1771, two hun
dred and fifty of the two thousand Regulators who had
gathered with their rifles at Alamance when they heard
of the coming of the militia, lay dead. The living were
forced to retreat.
If Robertson had planned his return it could not have
come at a more auspicious moment. His neighbors had
been sorely tried. They eagerly welcomed words of a bet
ter land in which to live, and sixteen families followed
their leader to the Watauga country.
Things loomed dark for the new settlers for a time. It
turned out that the lands staked out for them were neither
in Virginia nor Carolina. Indeed Robertson and his neigh
bors found themselves quite "outside the boundaries of
civilized government."
The Scotch-Irish had not forgotten Ulster, and they
lost no time in making a treaty with the Indians upon
whose territory they really were. They drew up leases, and
some of the seventeen families even purchased part of the
land.
Soon the ax was ringing in the forest. A cluster of cabins
sprang up. Another settlement was established and before
long thousands came to join the seventeen families who
had followed James Robertson. So long as there had been
The Country and the People 29
only a handful of neighbors the problem of government
did not present itself. The level-headed thinkers of the
group again put their heads together and pondered well.
Now that they had burned their bridges behind them they
must make firm the rock upon which they built. Above
all they must stand united, with hearts and hands to
gether for the well-being of all. To that end they formed
an Association, the Watauga Association they called it,
and adopted a constitution (1772) by which to live. It was
"the first ever adopted by a community of American-born
freemen," says Theodore Roosevelt in The Winning of
the West.
If Daniel Boone had been a man to glow with pride he
might well have done so over the outcome of that first
hunting trip he made to the Watauga country. But Daniel
was a hunter, an adventurer, an explorer who loved above
all else space. He didn t like being crowded by a lot of
neighbors. So again in 1773, calling his little family around
the fireside one night, he told them he meant to pull up
stakes and move on. They had only been there four years
which was a brief time considering the laborious journey
they d had to get there, the hardships of life, of clearing
ground and taking root again. However, if Rebecca offered
protest it was overcome. Daniel had a way with him. Per
haps she even helped her husband convince members of
her family that it was the thing to do. Her folks, the
Bryans, told others. The word passed around the family
circle until forty of the Bryans had decided they d join
Daniel and Rebecca. Boone sold his home. Why bother
with it! He d probably never be back there to live, for
this time Daniel and Rebecca, with their children, the
Bryans, and Captain William Russell, were going on a
long journey. They were headed for Kentucky. Daniel
30 Blue Ridge Country
had told them some fine and promising yarns about his
lone expedition to that far-off country.
The way wasn t easy. Following watercourses, fording
swollen streams, picking their way over rocks and loose
boulders, through mud and sand. Besides there was the
constant dread of the Indian. Their fears were confirmed
before they reached Cumberland Gap. While they were
still in Powell Valley a band of Indians attacked Boone s
party. The women huddled together in terror while the
men seized their guns.
But for all his skill as a marksman, Daniel Boone could
not stay the hand of the Indian whose arrow pierced the
heart of his oldest son. There was another grave in the
wilderness and the disheartened party returned to the
Watauga country. This time, however, Boone settled in
the Clinch Valley.
The Indians continued on a rampage. Consequently
it was nearly two years before Boone started again for
Kentucky. This time he gained his goal, though at first
he did not take Rebecca and his family. He meant to
make a safe place for them to live.
These were times to try men s souls. Everywhere man
yearned for freedom. About this time a young Scotch-
Irishman in Virginia astounded his hearers by a speech
he made at St. John s Church in Richmond. When the
zealous patriot cried, "Give me liberty, or give me death/
the fervor and eloquence of his voice echoed down the
valleys. It re-echoed through the mountains. That young
orator, "Patrick Henry, and his Scotch-Irish brethren from
the western Counties carried and held Virginia for Inde
pendence/ it has been said.
There was unity in thought and purpose among the
Scotch-Irish whether they lived in highland or lowland
The Country and the People 31
and their purpose was to gain freedom and independence.
A bond of feeling that could not have existed among the
Dutch of New York, the Puritans of New England, the
English of Virginia, even if they had not been so widely
separated geographically. Moreover, the isolation of the
Scotch-Irish in the wilderness, though it cut them off from
voice in the government or protection by it, made them
self-reliant people. They had had enough of royal govern
ment. Added to this was their natural hatred of British
aggression, distaste for the unfairness of those in political
power from whom they were so far removed by miles and
mountains. They thought for themselves and acted accord
ingly. Their individualism marked them for leadership
that was readily followed by others who also had known
persecution: the Palatine Germans, the Dutch, and the
Huguenots. They had another strong ally in the English
who had come from Virginia to settle in the mountains
and whose traditions of resolute action added to the moun
taineer s spirit of independence. The flame of agitation
was fanned by the unfairness of government officials in
the lowlands. The mountain people had long since looked
to their own protection and their Scotch-Irish nature per
sisted in resentment of unfairness from authority of any
source. This spirit prevailed among the incoming settlers
in Carolina. There was dissatisfaction between them and
the planters, the men of means and influence who with
unfair taxation and injustice persecuted the less prosper
ous newcomers. Discontent grew and brought on events
that were forerunners of the expansive militant movement
that came in American life.
First was the Declaration of Abingdon, Virginia, in
January, 1775. Daniel Boone had led an expedition there
sixteen years earlier and may have planted the seed in
32 Blue Ridge Country
the minds of those who stayed on, while he went on to
Kentucky. Title to much of the land which embraced
Kentucky was claimed by the Cherokees. England still
claimed the right to any territory in America and the
war s beginnings left the whole thing in doubt. England
might even make void Virginia s titles if she were so in
clined. In the midst of these doubts and disputed claims
several North Carolina gentlemen, including Richard
Henderson and Nathaniel Hart, in the spring of 1775
formed themselves into the Transylvania Company for
the purpose o acquiring title to the territory of Kentucky
from the Cherokees. They meant to operate on a great
scale, to establish an independent empire here in the "ex
pansive West." They looked about for a man to help them.
They didn t have to look long.
There was Daniel Boone. He had a background. He d
scouted all over the country. He d fought with Washing
ton against the French when he was only in his teens. He
was a fearless fellow; he knew how to deal with the In
dian. So the Transylvania Company employed Daniel as
their representative to negotiate with the Cherokees. The
council met at Sycamore Shoals on the Watauga, a tribu
tary of the Holston River. There the Cherokees ceded to
the company for "ten thousand pounds, all the vast tract
of land lying between the Ohio and Cumberland rivers,
and west and south of the Kentucky." This region was
called Transylvania.
So, just six years after his first hunting trip to Kentucky,
Boone began to colonize it and that in flat defiance of the
British government. He thumbed his nose too at a menac
ing proclamation of North Carolina s royal governor.
Now that the land was acquired by the Transylvania
Company -they would have to charter a course leading to
The Country and the People 33
and through it for prospective settlers. For theirs was a
"land and improvement company." Again Daniel Boone
was employed. This time his task was to open a path
through the wilderness.
With ax and tomahawk, with fighting and tribulations,
he blazed the trail from Holston River to the mouth of
Otter Creek on the Kentucky River. "Boone s Trace/
they called it, connecting with the Warrior s Path and its
extensions into eastern Tennessee and western North
Carolina through Cumberland Gap and even beyond. It
became the Wilderness Trail or Wilderness Road. It was
the first through course from the mother state of Vir
ginia to the West.
In spite of the purchase of land from the Indian, in
spite of all the treaties of peace, the cunning warrior per
sisted in attack upon the white men, in massacre of women
and children, in capture of hunter and trapper.
Daniel Boone and his men had to safeguard their fami
lies and the future of their company. They set about
building a fort. As for Boone, he felt himself "an instru
ment ordained to settle the wilderness. * No hardship was
too great, no sorrow too deep to deter him in his mission
of "pioneering and subduing the wilderness for the habi
tation of civilized men."
After two years of hardship and toil a fort was built on
the banks of the Kentucky River. It consisted of cabins
of roughhewn logs surrounded by a stockade. Over this
crude fort, in one cabin of which Boone and Rebecca lived
with their family, a flag was raised on May 23, 1775. It
marked a new and independent nation called Transyl
vania.
Only a week after the flag-raising in Kentucky the peo
ple of Mecklenburg, which had been established only
34 Blue Ridge Country
eleven years, made another step toward independence.
On May 31, 1775, the Mecklenburg Resolutions were
adopted in North Carolina.
In the meantime the Revolution had begun and moun
tain men were first to join Washington against the British
in the forces of Morgan s Riflemen and Nelson s Rifle
men. Their skill with firearms, their fearlessness, made
them invaluable to Washington. "It was their quality of
cool courage and personal independence/ said Raine,
"that won the battles o Kings Mountain and Cowpens
and drove Lord Cornwallis to his surrender at Yorktown."
Each movement toward independence in Tennessee,
Kentucky, Virginia, and North Carolina had been under
the leadership of mountain men and the accomplishment
of their several declarations paved the way for the more
widespread Continental Declaration of Independence at
Philadelphia, July 4, 1776.
It echoed around the world, but Daniel Boone, that
young rebel, didn t even hear of it until the following
August. Whereupon the fearless hunter with the abandon
of a happy lad danced a jig around the bonfire inside the
stockade. It could have been an Elizabethan jig, ironically
enough, for the Boones were English. Daniel tossed his
coonskin cap into the air again and again and let out a
war whoop that brought the terrified Rebecca hurrying
to the cabin door, a whoop that pierced the silence of the
forest beyond.
By the time the Declaration was signed the mountain
people constituted one sixth of the settlement of the
United States.
As for Daniel Boone, twenty-five years had passed since
he, a boy of sixteen, had left Pennsylvania with his father
and brothers. He was forty-one years old when he set up
The Country and the People
housekeeping at Boonesborough where the fort stood on
the banks of the Kentucky. Never in all his life had he
been quite so settled. Daniel had acquired title to lands
from the Transylvania Company and things looked prom
ising. Rebecca too must have been happy in their security.
The children could safely play inside the stockade even
if they did squabble with the neighbors children. Rebecca
must have sung a ballad betimes as she cooked venison
or wild turkey at the hearth, or swept the floor with her
rived oak broom. For Daniel could whittle a broom for
her while he sat meditating aloud on his past adventures.
Daniel was satisfied. Rebecca could see that. Now with the
colony established in the wilderness Daniel Boone had
realized the dream of his life.
In the thirteen years Boone lived in Kentucky he con
tinued to hunt and trap and explore. He took others along
with him on his various expeditions. In January, 1778,
with a party of thirty men he went to make salt at Blue
Lick. He knew the places to go for he had found them
previously by following the path of buffalo, deer, and
bear that had gone there to lick salt. Boone and his men
threw up rough shelters for themselves. Soon the kettles
were boiling, the salt was made. They were in the midst
of preparations to pack up their belongings and load the
salt into bags when Daniel s keen ears caught the sound
of moccasined feet in the underbrush nearby. Suddenly
as if they had popped up out of the ground a band of In
dians pounced upon the white men. All but three of
Boone s party were captured. They escaped and after hid
ing the kettles took the salt back to the stockade. Daniel
and two of his companions were borne off to Detroit.
Boone was a wary fellow, so he pretended to be quite
contented with his lot and the Indians were so pleased
36 Blue Ridge Country
with him they adopted him as a son into their tribe. He
would have looked a fright to Rebecca for the Indians
cropped his hair close to the scalp save a tuft on the top
of his head which was bedecked with trinkets shells,
teeth of wild animals, feathers. The women dressed him
up in this fashion, first taking him to the river and giving
him a thorough scrubbing "to take out his white blood."
Then they painted his face with colors as bright as those
of any chieftain in the tribe. Daniel was a good actor. He
pretended to be highly pleased, but he was only awaiting
the chance to escape. One day there was quite a stir in
the camp. Daniel observed many new faces among the
warriors. They talked and gesticulated excitedly, and
Boone soon gathered the purpose of the powwow.
"They re going on the warpath/ Daniel said to himself,
and to my notion they re headed toward our stockade."
While they continued to harangue among themselves
Daniel stealthily made his escape. He covered the inter
vening one hundred and sixty miles in five days.
The Indians didn t carry out their plan to attack the
fort until some weeks later and when they did march
into view they were led by Captain Duquesne of the Eng
lish Army.
The siege lasted for nine days but the veteran riflemen
of the fort, under Boone J s skillful direction, gained the
day with only a loss of three or four men, while many of
the four hundred Indians fell.
There were many other battles with the Indians who
crossed the Ohio into Kentucky, and though Boone was
always in the thick of the fray he came out uninjured.
And then misfortune came in another way.
Things had looked fair enough in the beginning when
the Transylvania Company sold boundaries of land to
The Country and the People 37
settlers, with Colonel Henderson, a bright lawyer who had
once been appointed Associate Chief Justice, to look after
the legal side of the transactions. The company asked only
thirteen and one third cents per acre for the land for one
year and an added half cent per acre quitrent to begin in
1780. At such a low rate it was possible for a man to pur
chase a boundary of six hundred acres. When Daniel
talked it over with Rebecca they concluded he would not
be overreaching himself to invest in such an acreage.
The Transylvania Company did a land-office business.
By December of the first year after Colonel Henderson
opened up his office for business in Boonesborough
560,000 acres were sold. That was all right for the com
pany, but what of the purchaser? What with the squabbles
and disputes concerning title between Indian and settler,
English and French, Boone like others soon found himself
with not a leg to stand on. He had bought "wildcat" land.
Land-sharks cleaned him out.
At the age of fifty-four, in 1788, Daniel had to start
all over again. With Rebecca at his side and a larger
family he moved on.
Boone had scouted through the West Virginia country
long before, when he had passed a solitary winter in a
hut on the Big Sandy. So now once more he turned in
that direction, pressing on until he reached the mouth
of the Great Kanawha River. He lived from place to
place in the Kanawha country, following his old pursuits
of hunting and trapping, and as usual absented himself
from his fireside for long days at a stretch. But Rebecca
was used to his ways. She looked after the family, cooked
and mended. When Daniel returned home Rebecca al
ways cleaned him up again before he started on another
hunting trip.
38 Blue Ridge Country
Eleven years passed without a word being said about
land titles. Then one day Daniel found himself facing the
same situation that had robbed him of his acres in Ken
tucky. A man of sixty-five, and with a family of seven,
three boys and four girls two of their boys had been
killed in battle with the Indians Daniel, though still a
fearless hunter, didn t want to be bothered with squabbles
over land titles. He told Rebecca there was an easier way
around. There were places outside of the jurisdiction of
the United States altogether. "We don t have to be be
holden to anyone/ he said boastfully.
Pioneer women followed their men. So once more
Rebecca made ready for the journey. She mended gar
ments; she gathered up their few cooking utensils and
the furry hides that were their blankets. She tied some of
her choice things in her apron. That she d carry right on
her arm. The boys helped their father make ready the
great cumbersome cart that was to carry their possessions.
When all was in readiness Daniel pulled on his coonskin
cap and whistling up his dogs he started off resolutely
ahead of his family.
On and on they went until they reached Spanish terri
tory beyond the Mississippi in Upper Louisiana. There
at Charette (fifty miles west of St. Louis) Daniel Boone
remained for a score of years, still hunting and trapping.
Even after Rebecca died he stayed on in the log cabin
that had been their home for so long. An old man of
seventy-eight he was, with many a sorrow to look back
upon. For him the trail had been a "bloody one," Daniel
often reflected. He had seen two of his boys fall under
the tomahawk, and his brothers too. He had seen Re
becca s grief and terror at bloodshed; her anxiety in the
lonely life of the wilderness. He had seen her despair
The Country and the People 39
when the very ground in which they had taken root was
torn from under their feet. He had known the suffering
of winter winds, the desolation of the forest. He had
suffered innumerable hardships. All these things he lived
again as he sat alone in the house where Rebecca had
died.
But the spirit of the hunter still burned in the old
man s bosom at the age of eighty-five. Even then he was
all for shouldering his gun once more and setting out
with an Indian lad to explore the Rockies. His son per
suaded him to give up the thought. "You re too old, Pa.
If you fall over a cliff your bones would be broke to
smithereens. Come and live with me. My house is safe.
It s all built of stone. The Indians can t burn down a stone
house." After much bickering Daniel finally heeded his
son and went to live with him. He died there in 1822.
The fort which he so proudly built and valiantly de
fended continues to bear his name, being one of at least
thirty localities in the United States which take their
name from the first pioneer of the great valley of the
Mississippi. His body lies in a little cemetery in Ken
tucky s capital. A humble grave, though as you stand be
side it you feel the spirit of the great hunter hovering near.
A courageous explorer in leather breeches and coonskin
cap blazed the trail through an unbroken wilderness to
help build America.
At length through Cumberland Gap following Boone s
Wilderness Trail came the ancestors of David Crockett,
Samuel Houston, John C. Calhoun, "Stonewall" Jackson,
and Abraham Lincoln. The Boones and Lincolns had
been neighbors back in Pennsylvania in one of the most
German settlements. Yet both families themselves were
English.
40 Blue Ridge Country
THE MOUNTAINEER
Difficulties of communication are enough to explain
the isolation of mountaineers. For long years, even until
yesterday, the only roads were the beds of tortuous and
rockstrewn watercourses that were dry when you started
at sunup and were suddenly transformed by a downpour
to swollen, turbulent streams, perilous even to ford.
But for all that, in 1803 there were a million settlers
in the southern highlands. Hardships of life there might
have shaken a man s faith but not his love of the country.
In Kentucky alone in 1834 there were 500 pensioners of
the Revolution. And when the guns roared at the opening
of the Civil War, the southern highlanders sent 180,000
riflemen to the Union Army.
An isolated people drops easily into illiteracy. Cut off
as the mountain men were from the outside world, they
knew little of what was going on beyond their mountain
walls. Even if newspapers had found their way to the
mountaineer s cabin they would have been of little use
to men who could not read. On the other hand, had the
mountain men known of the great westward movement
toward the plains few of them could have joined the cara
vans. The mountaineer had no money because he had no
way to produce money. For that reason he could not even
reach the nearest lowlands. Even if he had moved down
into the lowlands he could not hope to own land but
would only have fallen once more into the unbearable
state of his forbears in Ulster that of tenant, or menial,
with proprietors and bosses to harass his life. This peril
alone was enough, aside from the lack of money, to make
the highlander shrink from the society of the lowlands.
The Country and the People 41
The few who straggled down were glad enough to return
to the cloister of the mountains. Besides the mountaineer
didn t like the climate or the water down there. The
sparkling, cool mountain brook, the constant breeze and
bracing air were much more to his liking. Indeed the cli
mate has had its effect upon the mountaineer, not only
upon his physical beinghe is tall and stalwart; few moun
tain men are dwarfed but the bracing air enables him
to toil for long days in the open. He can walk or hoe
corn on an almost perpendicular corn patch from day
light till dark. He is patient and is never in a hurry. Time
means nothing to him. Down in the Unakas a mountaineer
once had a cataract removed from the right eye. The sur
geon told him to return in a couple months when it
would be safe to operate upon the other eye. Twenty
years elapsed before the fellow returned to the doctor s
office; when he was chided for the delay he answered un
concernedly, "I lowed twas no use to be in a hurry about
it."
Yet for all their seeming indifference the people of the
Blue Ridge, who locked their offspring generation after
generation in mountain fastnesses that have barred the
world, have kept alive and fresh in memory the unwritten
song, the speech, the tradition of their Anglo-Saxon and
Anglo-Celtic ancestors.
Down through the centuries the blood and traditions of
the pioneers have carried, creating a stalwart, a fearless
people. Hidden away in the high crannies of the Blue
Ridge they have come to be known as Mountaineers,
Southern Highlanders, Appalachian Mountaineers, and
Southern Mountaineers. But if you should ask a name o
any of the old folk of the Blue Ridge country they doubt
less will tell you, "We are mountain people." Never hill-
42 Blue Ridge Country
billies! A hill-billy, the true mountain man or woman
would have you know, is one born of the mountains who
has got above his raising, ashamed to own his origin, one
who holds his own mountain people up for scorn and
ridicule. To mountain folk the word hill-billy is a slur
of the worst sort. A slur that has caused murder.
They recognize no caste in the Blue Ridge Country.
They are hospitable beyond measure, I have come to know
in my long years of roaming through the mountains,
first as court stenographer in isolated courts, then as
ballad collector. I have never entered a mountain home
throughout the Blue Ridge, no matter how humble the
fare, where man, woman, or child offered apology for
anything, their surroundings or the food and hospitality
given to the stranger under their roof. "You re welcome
to what we ve got," is the invariable greeting though
the bed be a crude shuck tick shared with the children of
the family, the fare cornbread and sorghum.
As a child I used to go to the cabin home of one of my
father s kinsmen, a man who could neither read nor write,
though he knew his Bible from cover to cover and could
cite accurately chapter and verse of any text from which
he chose to preach. There was but one room in his house
of logs with its lean-to kitchen of rough planks, but never
did I hear father s kinsman or his wife offer any word of
excuse for anything. When it was time for victuals his
wife, with all the graciousness of nobility, would stand
behind her guests, while her man, seated at the head of
the table, head bowed reverently, offered thanks. Then,
lifting his head, he would fling wide his open palms in
hospitality, "Thar hit is afore you. Take holt and eat all
you re a-mind to!" And turning to his wife, "Marthie!
watch their plates!" My great-aunt kept a vigilant eye on
The Country and the People 43
us as she walked around the table inviting us to partake,
"Hure, have more of the snaps. Holp yourself to the ham
meat. Take another piece of cornbread. Ton my word,
you re pickin like a wren. Eat hearty!" she urged, while
above our heads she swished the fly-brush, a branch from
the lilac bush in summer, otherwise a fringed paper at
tached to a stick.
They learned through necessity to put to use the things
at hand, made their own crude implements to clear and
break the stubborn soil; they learned to do without.
Their poteen (whiskey) craft, handed down by their
Scotch-Irish ancestors, survives today in what outlanders
term moonshining. Resentment against taxation of home
made whiskey survives too. The mountaineer reasons I ve
heard them frequently in court that the land is his, that
he "heired it from his Pa, same as him from hisn," that
he plants him some bread without no tax. Why can t he
make whiskey from his corn without paying tax?
As for killing in the Blue Ridge Country. In my pro
fession of court stenographer I have reported many trials
for killing and almost invariably my sympathy has been
with the slayer. Usually he admits that he had it to do
either for a real or fancied wrong, or for a slur to his
womenfolks. I ve never known of gangsters, fingermen,
or paid killers in the Blue Ridge Country.
With an inherent love of music, handed down from the
wandering minstrels of Shakespeare s time, and with a
wealth of ballads stored up in their heads and hearts, they
found in these a joyful expression. Even the children, like
their elders, can turn a hand to fashion a make-believe
whistle of beech or maple, although they may never know
that in so doing they are making an imitation of the Re
corder upon which Queen Elizabeth herself was a skilled
44 Blue Ridge Country
performer. Little Chad at the head of Raccoon Hollow
will cut two corn stalks about the length of his small
arms and earnestly proceed to make music by sawing one
across the other, singing happily:
Corn stalk fiddle and shoe-string bow,
Best old fiddle in the country, oh!
not knowing that Haydn, the child, likewise sawed one
stick upon another in imitation of playing the fiddle. And
there s Little Babe of Lonesome Creek who delights in a
gourd banjo. His grandsir, finding a straight, long-necked
gourd among those clustered on the vine over kitchen-
house door, fashioned it into a banjo for the least one.
Cut it flat on one side, did the old man, scooped out the
seed, then covered the opening with a bit of brown paper
made fast with flour paste, strung it with cat gut. And
there, bless you, as fine a banjo as ever a body would want
to pick.
They are neighborly in the Blue Ridge Country. They
ask no favor of any man. Yet the road is never too rough,
the way too far, for one neighbor to go to the aid of
another in time of sickness or death. I knew a little boy
who was dangerously sick with a strange ailment that
primitive home remedies could not heaL Neighbor boys
made a slide, a quilt tied to two strong saplings, and car
ried their little friend some ten miles over a rough moun
tain footpath to the nearest wagon road. There, placing
him in a jolt wagon, the bed of which had been filled with
hay to ease his suffering in jolting over the rough creek-
bed road, they continued the journey on for thirty miles
to the wayside railroad station where the cars bore the
afflicted child on to town and the hospital.
The Country and the People 45
A feud is the name given to their family quarrels by
the level-landers. Mountain people never use the word.
They say war or troubles. Their clannishness was inherited
from their Scotch ancestors, and the wild, rugged moun
tains lent themselves perfectly to warfare among the clans.
They had lived apart so long, protected from invasion and
interference by their high mountain walls, that they
learned to settle their own differences in their own way.
They knew no law but the gun. If John warned his neigh
bor Mark that Mark s dog was killing his sheep and the
neighbor did nothing about it, John settled the matter
forthwith by shooting the dog. Families took sides. The
flame was fanned. The feud grew.
However, in time of disaster, with grim faces and will
ing hands, they come to the aid of an unfortunate neigh
bor. Once when a terrible flood caused Troublesome to
overflow its banks, carrying everything in its raging course,
I saw a team of mules, the only means of support of a
widowed mother of a dozen children, swept away. She
hired the team to neighbors and thus earned a meager liv
ing. I remember the despair of that white, drawn face as
the widow looked on helplessly at the destruction. Not a
word did she speak. But before darkness the next day
neighbor men far and wide, and none of them were pros
perous, chipped in from their small hoards and got another
team for the woman.
2. Land of Feuds and Stills
HATFIELDS AND McCovs
WHEN Dr. Walker, the Englishman, the first white
man in Cumberland Gap, followed the course of
Russell Fork out o Virginia into Kentucky back in 1750,
he came upon a wooded point of land shaped like a tri
angle which was skirted by two forks of tepid water. The
one to the left, as he faced westward, this English explorer
called Levisa after the wife of the Duke of Cumberland.
Generations later a lovely mountain girl wore the name
he had given the stream and she became the wife of the
leader of a blood feud in the country where he set up his
hut. It was a blood feud and a war of revenge that lasted
more than forty years, the gruesome details of which have
echoed around the world, cost scores of lives, and struck
terror to the hearts of women and innocent children for
several decades.
Devil Anse Hatfield, the leader of his clan, himself told
me much of the story when I lived on Main Island Creek
in Logan County, West Virginia, and on Tug Fork of the
Big Sandy River. His wife Levicy she who had been
Levicy Chafin did not spell her name as the name of the
stream was spelled though she pronounced it the same
way. It was a story that began with the killing of Harmon
McCoy in 1863 by Devil Anse, who was a fearless fighter,
46
Land of Feuds and Stills 47
a. captain in a body of the Rebel forces known as the
Logan Wildcats. Later, when Jonse Hatfield, the leader s
oldest boy, grew to young manhood, he set eyes upon
Rosanna McCoy, old Randall s daughter, and loved her at
sight. But Devil Anse, because of the hatred he bore Ro-
sanna s father, wouldn t permit his son to marry a McCoy.
Rosanna loved Jonse madly. And he, swept away with
wild, youthful passion, determined to have her. He did,
though not in lawful wedlock.
Quarrels and bickerings between the sides sprang up at
the slightest provocation. Even a dispute over the owner
ship of a hog resulted in another killing. Old Randall
grew more bitter as time went on, what with Rosanna the
mother of an illegitimate child and Jonse, even though he
lived *with her under his father s own roof, being-faithless
to the girl. And when, after the McCoys stabbed Ellison
Hatfield to death, Devil Anse avenged his brother s death
by inciting his clan to slay Randall s three boys, Little
Randall, Tolbert and Phemer, the leader of the McCoys
vowed he d not rest until he wiped out the last one of the
other clan.
There were killings from ambush, open killings, threats,
house-burnings. Once the McCoys had outtricked Devil
Anse and had stolen his favorite son Jonse away while he
was courting Rosanna. They meant to riddle him with
bullets. But the Hatfields got word of it. Rosanna had be
trayed her own family, so the McCoys felt, for the love of
Jonse. The Hatfields came galloping along the road by
moonlight, surrounded the McCoys, demanded the release
of the prisoner, young Jonse, and even made a McCoy dust
young Hatfield s boots.
When the law tried to interfere, Devil Anse built a
drawbridge to span the creek beside which his house
48 Blue Ridge Country
stood, stationed a bevy of armed Hatfields around his
place, and ruled his clan like a czar, directing their every
deed.
The bloody feud did not end until 1920, after Sid Hat-
field on Tug Fork, which with Levisa forms Big Sandy,
had shot to death some nine men led by Baldwin-Felts
detectives. They had killed Mayor Testerrnan of the vil
lage of Matewan. And when they came to arrest Sid on
what he termed a trumped-up charge he reached for his
gun. Sid, then chief of police of Matewan, West Virginia,
had been accused of opposing labor unions among the coal
miners and the coming of the detectives was the result.
Though Hatfields and McCoys were both miners and coal
operators, the killing of the detectives by Sid had no direct
bearing upon the early differences between the clans. But
the wholesale killing on the streets of Matewan in 1920
marked the end of the Hatfield-McCoy feud.
Devil Anse lived to see peace between his family and
the McCoys.
Through thick and thin Levicy Chafin Hatfield stood
by her man, though she pleaded with him to give up the
strife.
They waged their blood battles on Levisa Fork and
Tug, on Blackberry and Grapevine, creeks that were tribu
taries to the waters that swelled the Big Sandy as they
flowed down through the mountains of West Virginia and
Kentucky, emptying at last into the Ohio.
Levicy bore her mate thirteen children and died a few
years after 1921 when the old clansman had passed to the
beyond. There was not even a bullet mark on the old
clansman. He died a natural death, mountain kinsmen
will tell you proudly. He was buried with much pomp,
Land of Feuds and Stills 49
as pomp goes in the mountains, on Main Island Creek of
West Virginia, in the family burying ground.
I knew Devil Anse and "Aunt" Levicy quite well. For,
long centuries after my illustrious kinsman had returned
to Merrie England to report upon his expedition for the
Loyal Land Company in the Blue Ridge, I followed the
same course he had blazed out of Virginia into the moun
tains of Kentucky and West Virginia. I lived for a number
of years on Levisa Fork and Tug Fork and on Main Island
Creek in West Virginia, where my nearest neighbors and
best friends were Hatfields and, strangely enough, McCoys.
One day Devil Anse stopped at my house out of a down
pour of rain and a$ he sat looking out of the open door
he fell to talking of another rainy day many years before.
"This puts me in the mind of the time I had to go away
on business down to the mouth of Big Sandy," he said in
his slow, even tones. All the time his eagle eyes were fixed
on me. "I had to go down to the mouth of Big Sandy,"
he repeated, "on some business of my own. A man has a
right to protect his family," he interrupted himself and
arched a brow. "Anyway there come an awful rainstorm
and creeks busted over their banks till I couldn t ford
em not even on Queen, as high-spirited a nag as any man
ever straddled. But she balked that day seeing the creeks
full of trees pulled up by the roots and even carcasses of
calves and fowls. Queen just nat erly rared back on her
haunches and wouldn t budge. Couldn t coax nor flog her
to wade into the water. A feller come ridin up on a shiny
black mare. Black and shiny as I ever saw and its neck
straight as a fiddle bow. He said the waters looked too
treacherous and turned and rode off over the mountain,
his black hair drippin wet on his shoulders. Anyway there
I was held back another day and night till that master tide
50 " Blue Ridge Country
swept on down to the Big Waters [the Ohio]. When I got
home my little girls Rosie and Nancy come runnin down
the road to meet me. Tappy, look! what a strange man
give us! Rosie held out her hand and there was a siFer
dollar in it and Nancy brought her hand from behind
her and openin her fist she had a sil er dollar too and
little Lizbeth she come runnin to show me what she had.
Another sil er dollar, bless you. This strange man were
most powerful free-hearted/ sez I, gettin off of Queen. I
throwed the bridle over the fence rail and went on up to
the house, packin my saddle pockets over my arm and my
gun and cartridge belt over my shoulder. My little girls
come troopin behind. Their Ma stood waitin in the door
twistin the end of her apron like she ever did when she
was warried. Captain Anderson! sez she, that were her
pet name for me, I ve been nigh in a franzy. I lowed sure
you and Queen had been washed plum down in the flood.
Here, let me have them soppin clothes and them muddy
boots/ Levicy was the workinest woman you ever saw.
Washed and scoured till my garmints looked like new.
And after I d got on clean dry clothes such a feast she set
before me. Ton my word, it made me feel right sheepish.
A body would think, Levicy/ sez I, that I were the
Prodigal Son come home/ She spoke right up. See here,
Anderson Hatfield, I won t have you handlin no such talk
about the sire of my little girls/ sez she, spoonin the sweet
potatoes on my plate, and smilin so tender and good on
me. Then my little girls gathered round to see what I d
fetched them. There was store candy and a pretty hair
ribbon for each one that I taken out of the saddle pockets.
And a gold breast pin for Levicy. Never saw a woman so
pleased in my life. 1 don t aim to hold it back just to wear
to meetin / sez she. And she didn t. From then on she
Land of Feuds and Stills 51
wore that gold breast pin every day of her life. Said she
meant to be buried with it. Well, ginst my little girls had
et their candy and plaited each other s hair and tied on
their new ribbons they hovered around me again to show
their sil er the strange man had give them. Captain An
derson/ sez Levicy, he was handsome built and set his
saddle proud and fearless. But not half so proud and fear
less as you. Nor were he half so handsome/ I could feel
her hand on my shoulder a-quiverin* a little grain like
Levicy s hand ever did when she was plum happy. Then
she went on to tell as she washed the dishes and Nancy
and Rosie dried them and Lizbeth packed them off to the
cupboard, about the strange man. He laid powerful ad
miration on our little girls. Levicy was wipin off the oil
cloth on the table with her soapy dish rag. He had them
line up in a row to see which was tallest, whilst I set him
a snack. "Shut your eyes/ sez he, "and open your mouth."
They did, and bless you, Captain Anderson, what did he
do but put a siFer dollar in their mouth each one/ By
this time Nancy and Rosie and Lizbeth had finished the
dishes and they come hoverin round my knee again whilst
I cleaned and polished my gun. Each one holdin* proud
their sil er dollar, turnin it this way and that, rubbin it
on their dress sleeve to make the eagle shine. Just then,
Jonse, my oldest boy, come gallopin up the road on
Prince, his little sorrel. He never stopped till he got right
to the kitchen-house door. The chickens made a scatter-
mint before him. Pa! he shouted out, throwin* Prince s
bridle out of his hand and jumpin down to the ground.
They ve caught him! Robbed the bank at Charleston!
Levicy was drying the tin dishpan. She starred at Jonse
and so did I. Caught who?* sez I. Jesse James* brother,
Frank! It was him that was here. Him that Ma fed t other
52 Blue Ridge Country
day. Him that give Nancy and Rosie and Lizbeth a sil er
dollar! Levicy dropped the dishpan and retched a hand
to the table. Mistress Levicy Chafin Hatfield! sez I, never
again can I leave this house in peace. A man s family s not
safe with such scalawags prowlin the country! "
Then Devil Anse went on with the rest of the story.
Devil Anse, the leader of the Hatfield clan whose very
name struck terror to the hearts of people, and Jesse James
brother Frank, highwayman and bank robber, had met on
a mountain road, each unaware of the other s identity,
each intent on his own business. Captain Anderson had
gone down to the mouth of Big Sandy, the county seat,
Catlettsburg, Kentucky, to buy ammunition with which
to annihilate the McCoys. That story too the outside world
heard afterward, for the clans met on Blackberry Creek
and engaged in battle for several hours with dead and
dying from both sides on the fieldor rather in the bushes.
Whatever else has been attributed to Devil Anse he
liked to prank as well as anyone. He took particular glee
in telling the following story to me, his eagle eyes twin
kling:
"One day a tin peddler come with his pack of shiny cook
vessels in a shiny black oilcloth poke on his back. The
fellow wore red-topped bodts and a red flannel shirt, for
all it was summer. His breeches had more patches than a
scarecrow and his big felt hat had seen its best days too.
He kept at Levicy to buy his wares but she was one that
didn t favor shiny tinware. It rustes out," she told the
peddler. Nohow I ve got plenty of iron cook vessels. All
the time the old peddler was trying to wheedle and coax
her into buying something, a quart cup, a milk bucket, a
dishpan, a washpan. I was inside in the sitting room rest
ing myself on the sofa. I could hear the peddler outside
Land of Feuds and Stills 53
on the stoop, bickering and haranguing at Levicy to buy.
Finally I got my fill of it and I tiptoed out through the
kitchen-house, my gun over my shoulder. I went to the
barn lot and turned loose Buck, a young bull we had that
I d been aimin to swop Jim Vance. I give Buck one good
wollop across the rump with the pain o my hand. He
kicked up his heels and rushed forward, me close behind
with my gun. The peddler took one look at Buck, so it
peered to me, and Buck took one look at the peddler, low
ered his head and charged. The peddler let out a war
whoop and flew down the hillside like a thousand hornets
had lit on him. The pack fell from his back and there was
a scattennint of tinware from top to bottom of that hill.
Buck shook his head and snorted. His eyes bugged outten
the sockets. I couldn t tell if he was ragin mad at the shiny
tin cook vessels that was tanglin his hoofs, or if it was the
red shirt and red-topped boots of the peddler that riled
Buck. Nohow Buck ducked his head again and bellowed,
caught a shiny quart cup on each horn and a couple wash-
pans on his forefeet and kept right on down the hill. By
this time the tin peddler had scooted up a tall tree quick
as a squirrel and there he set on a limb. Buck was ragin*
and chargin in circles around that tree. That bull was
riled plum to a franzy and that tin peddler was yaller as
a punkin. Skeert out of his wits. Come on down, you pore
critter! sez I. But he just opened his mouth and couldn t
say a word, just a dry croak like a frog bein* swallored in
sudden quicksand. Come on down/ I coaxed, 111 quile
Buck down till he s peaceable as a kitten/
"But the peddler just starred at me and shivered on the
limb like a sparrow bird freezin of a winter time in the
snow. Ill tend to Buck!* I promised him. Come on down!
And to put his mind at ease I up with my rifle-gun, shot
54 Blue Ridge Country
the quart tin cups offen Buck s horns and the washpans
offen his front hoofs. "Now get back to the barn where you
belong and behave yourself! 7 I sez to Buck and he scam
pered back up the hill as frolicsome as a lamb, pickin his
way careful like as a Jenny Wren through that scattermint
of tinware.
"The peddler was still shiverin on the tree limb over
head and his eyes buggin out worser n Buck s had when
he ketched first sight of the feller s red shirt and the shiny
tinware. Buck s gone/ I sez to him coaxin like. Tou don t
need to be skeert of him no more! T-t-tain t B-b-buck!
the feller s teeth chattered. It s you, D-d-evil A-a-nse!
With that he drapped off the limb down to the ground at
my feet. Swoonded dead away!"
Devil Anse Hatfield chuckled heartily. " T-t-ain t Buck!
B-b-uck/ sez he when he ketched his wind and revived up.
It s you D-d-evil Anse! "
The rest of the story Captain Anderson himself would
never tell but Aunt Levicy told me how he packed the tin
peddler back up the hill to the house on his shoulder and
had her cook him a big dinner of fried chicken and corn-
bread; how he gave the peddler a couple greenbacks that
made him plum paralyzed with pleasure and surprise;
and how he had Jonse take the peddler back to the county
seat, the peddler riding behind Jonse on Queen, where he
bought a new supply of tinware and went on his way.
Except for such interludes of pranking, doubtless Aunt
Levicy and old Randall s wife, Sarah McCoy, could never
have survived the ordeal of the Hatfield-McCoy feud.
The women of both households lived days of torture,
ever watchful of the approaching enemy. They spent sleep
less nights of anguish, knowing too well the sound of gun
shot, the cry of terror that meant another outbreak of the
Land of Feuds and Stills 55
clans. And when the cross grew too heavy even for their
stoic shoulders to bear they ventured unbeknownst to
their menfolks to the Good Shepherd of the Hills to beg
his intercession, his prayers for peace.
PEACEMAKER
Autumn had painted the wooded hillside bright scarlet,
golden brown, vivid orange, and yellow that shone in the
late September sunlight like a giant canvas beyond the
rambling farmhouse at the head of Garrett s Fork o Big
Creek where dwelt the Good Shepherd of the Hills, Wil
liam Dyke Garrett and his gentle wife. Here in Logan
County in the heart of the rugged West Virginia country,
Uncle Dyke and Aunt Sallie lived in the selfsame place for
all of seventy years. Sallie Smith, she was, of Crawley s
Creek, a few miles away, before she wed the young rebel
of the Logan Wildcats. That was away back in 1867,
February igth, to be exact. He was twenty, she in her
teens. He had been born and grew to young manhood in a
cabin only a stone s throw from where he and Miss Sallie,
as he always called her, went to housekeeping. As for their
neighbors, there wasn t a person in the whole countryside
that didn t love Sallie Garrett, nor one that didn t revere
the kindly Apostle of the Book. So long had Dyke Garrett
traveled up and down the valley comforting the sick, pray
ing with the dying, funeralizing the dead,
I had heard him preach in various places through the
West Virginia hills.
"Hello, Uncle Dyke!" I called from the roadside one
autumn day in 1936.
"Howdy! and welcome!" he replied cheerily, rising at
once from his straight chair and taking his place in the
56 Blue Ridge Country
door. His wife stepped nimbly to his side, for all her
ninety-odd years, and echoed the husband s greeting.
It is the way of the mountains.
I lifted the wood latch on the gate and went up the
white-pebbled path. Flower-bordered it was, with brilliant
scarlet sage, purple bachelor buttons, golden glow. There
was pretty-by-night, too, though their snow-white blossoms
were closed tight in the bud for it was not yet sundown;
only in the twilight and by night did the buds bloom out.
That s why they wear the name Pretty-by-Night," moun-"
tain folk will tell you. There were clusters of varicolored
seven sisters lifting up their bright petals. Moss, some call
it in the mountains. There were bright cockscomb and in
a swamp corner of the foreyard a great bunch of cat-o -
nine tails straight as corn stalks.
Tall, erect stood the Good Shepherd of the Hills, fully
six feet three in his boots, his white patriarchal beard
pillowed on his breast. The blue-veined hands rested upon
the back of his chair as he gazed at me from friendly eyes.
Aunt Sallie, a slight bird-like little creature, reached
scarcely to his shoulder. Her black sateen dress with fitted
basque and full skirt was set off with a white apron edged
with crocheted lace. The small knot of silver hair atop her
head was held in place with an old-fashioned tucking
comb. About her stooped shoulders was a knitted cape of
black yarn.
"Take a chair/ invited Uncle Dyke when I reached the
porch, waving me to a low stool. "Miss Sallie al lus favors
the rocker yonder on account the high back eases her
shoulders. She s not quite as peert as she was back in 1867."
"It took a bit of strength to tame Dyke and I had it to
do." She addressed me rather than her husband. "He was
Land of Feuds and Stills 57
give up to be the wildest young man in the country when
he came back from the Home War."
The Civil War having been ended for some two years
and the young private of the Logan Wildcats having been
tamed, he became converted to religion. Thereupon he
began to preach the Gospel.
But never in all the years of his ministry from 1867 to
1938, when failing health took him from the pulpit, did
Uncle Dyke Garrett receive a penny for preaching. He
never had a salary. William Dyke Garrett got his living
from the rugged little hillside farm that he tended with
his own hands.
"Before I was converted to religion/ he said, straight
ening in his chair, "I played the fiddle and many a time
went to square dances. But once I got the Spirit in here,"
placing a wrinkled hand upon his breast"! gave up
frolic tunes and played only religious music. There are
other ways for folks to get together and enjoy themselves
without dancing. Now there s the Big Meeting! Every year
on the first Sunday of September folks come from far and
near here to Big Creek and bring their basket dinner."
"Dyke started it many a year ago," Aune Sallie inter
posed with prideful glance at her mate.
Again he took up the story. "After we ve spread our
basket dinner out on the grass all under the trees we have
hymn-singing and"
"Dyke reads from the Scripture and preaches a spell."
Aunt Sallie meant that nothing should be left out. Nor
did the old man chide her.
"Many a one has been converted at the Big Meeting"
his eyes glowed "and nothing will stop it but the end of
time. They ll have the Big Meeting every year long after
I m gone. I m certain of that."
58 Blue Ridge Country
Presently his thoughts looped back to his wedding to
Sallie Smith. "Our infare-wedding lasted three days. The
first day at Sallie s, the second day at Pa s house, and the
third right here in our own home. That was the way in
those times. And I got so gleeful I fiddled and danced at
the same time! That ll be seventy-one year come February
of the year nineteen thirty-seven." Slowly he rolled his
thumbs one around the other, then he stroked his long
beard, eyes turned inward upon his thoughts. "Well, sir,
if I should get married one hundred times I d marry Miss
Sallie Smith every time. We ve traveled a long way to
gether and we ve had but few harsh words/
His mate lifted faded eyes to his. "Dyke, it was generally
my fault/ she said contritely, "but I was bound to scold
when you d get careless about your own self. I vow/ the
little old lady turned to me, "he took no thought of his
health nor his life nor limb. There was nothing he feared-
man nor beast nor weather. In the early days there were
no roads in this country and he rode horseback from one
church to another through the wilderness. In the dead of
night I ve known him to get up out of bed and go with a
troubled neighbor who had come for him to pray with the
dying."
Uncle Dyke chuckled softly. Sometimes they were not
as near death as I thought. Once I remember John Law-
ton came from way over in Hart County. His wife was at
the point of death, he said. She had lived a mighty sorry
life had Dessie Lawton."
"Parted John and his wife!" piped Aunt Sallie, "and
that poor girl went to her grave worshiping the ground
John Lawton walked on; hoping he d come back to her.
Dyke claims there s ever hope for them that repent, so
when John brought word that Dessie wanted to make her
Land of Feuds and Stills 59
peace with the Lord before she died, Dyke said nothin
could stay him. So off he rode behind John to pray over
that trollop!" Aunt Sallie s eyes blazed. "They forded the
creek no tellin how many times. They got chilled to the
bone. When they got there Dyke stumbled into the house
as fast as his cold, stiff legs could pack him, fell on his
knees longside Dessie s bed and begun to pray with all
his might. Then he tried to sing a hymn, but still never
a word nor a moan out of Dessie, covered over from head
to foot in the bed. Directly John reached over to lay a
hand on her shoulder. Dessie, honey/ he coaxed, Brother
Dyke Garrett s come to pray with you! He shook the heap
of covers. And bless you, what they thought was Dessie
turned out to be a feather bolster. John snatched back the
covers. The bed was empty except for that long feather
bolster that strumpet had covered over lengthwise of the
bed. Coine to find out Dessie had sent John snipe huntin ,
so to speak, and she skipped out with a timber cruiser.
Dyke was laid up for all of a week; took a deep cold on his
chest from riding home in his wet clothes."
The old preacher smiled at the memory. "Could have
been worse, like John Lawton said that night. Dessie s got
principle! said he. She could a-took my poke of seed corn,
but there it is a-hangin from the rafters. And she could
a-took my savin s/ With that John Lawton pried a stone
out of the hearth with the toe of his boot. Underneath it
lay a little heap of silver coins. John blinked at it a mo
ment. There it is. Dessie s shorely got principle. No two
ways about it/ He shifted the stone back to place, tilted
back in his chair, and patting his foot began to whistle a
rakish tune. He was still whistling as I rode off into the
bitter night/
There was another time Dyke recalled when old Granny
60 Blue Ridge Country
Partlow sent word that she couldn t hold out against the
Lord no longer. Granny was nearing eighty and for thirty
of her years she had sat a helpless cripple in a chair. At the
birth o her seventeenth child, paralysis had overtaken
Deborah, wife of Obadiah Partlow, rendering her useless
to her spouse and their numerous offspring. She had pro
tested bitterly, saying right out that it wasn t fair and that
so long as the affliction was upon her she meant to ask no
favor of the Lord. Deborah Partlow was through with
prayer and Scripture and Meeting, though in health never
had been there a more pious creature than Obadiah Part-
low s wife. Neighbor folk saw her wither and pine through
the years. A grim figure, she sat day in and day out in her
chair wherever it was placed. Lifeless from the waist down,
using her hands a little to peel potatoes or string beans,
though so slow and laborious were the movements of the
stiff fingers her children and Obadiah said they d rather
do any task themselves than to give it to her. At last she
had become an old woman, shriveled, grim, still bitter
about her fate.
No one was more surprised than Uncle Dyke Garrett
when she sent for him.
"Granny Partlow craved baptism," Uncle Dyke remem
bered the story as clearly as though it had happened but
yesterday. "The ice was all of a foot thick in the creek but
men cut it with ax and maddock, spade and saw. It had
to be a big opening to make room for Deborah Partlow
and her chair. Though her children and grandchildren
and old Obadiah protested It ll kill youl You ll be stone
dead before night! Granny had her way. Nor would she
put on her bonnet or shawl. Resolute, she sat straight in
her chair as neighbor men packed her through the snow
to the creek. The women standing on the bank wept and
Land of Feuds and Stills 61
wailed till they couldn t sing a hymn, It ll kill Granny
Partlow! they cried."
Uncle Dyke was silent a long moment. "No one could
ever rightly say how it come about. But the minute my
two helpers brought the old woman up out of the icy
waters she leaped out of her chair and took off up the
bank for home, fleet as a patridge, through snow up to
her knees, holding up her petticoats with both hands as
she flew along. Lived to be a hundred and three. Hoed
corn the day she died of sunstroke." The Good Shepherd
of the Hills sighed contentedly. "Deborah Partlow bein
baptized under ice brought a heap of converts to religion/
"But that baptizin caused me no end of anxiety," Aunt
Sallie took up the story. "That day when Dyke went out
to saddle old Beck the snow was plum up to his boot tops.
The mountains were white all around and the creek froze
in a sheet of ice. But go Dyke would. I wropt his muffler
twice around his neck, got his yarn mittens and pulse
warmers too and throwed a sheep hide over the top of his
wood saddle and one under it to ease the nag s back. He
had wooden stirrups too. Made the whole thing himself.
I dreaded to see Dyke ride off that winter s day for there
was a sharp wind that come down out of the hollow and
froze even the breath of him on his long black beard till
it looked white white as it is today. I watched him ride
off. Heard the nag s feet crunching in the snow. All of
three full days and nights he was gone, for at best the road
to Hart County was rough and hard to travel. In the mean
time come a blizzard. Not a soul passed this way, so I got
no word of Dyke. I conjured a thousand thoughts in my
mind. Maybe he d met the same fate of old man Frasher
who fell over a cliff in a blinding snowstorm. Maybe the
nag had stumbled and sent Dyke headlong over some steep
62 Blue Ridge Country
ridge. The children, we had several then, could see I was
troubled, though I tried to hide it. Finally on the third
night I had put our babes to bed and was sitting by the
fire too troubled to sleep. I had about give up hope of see
ing Dyke alive again. It was in the dead of night I heard
a voice. It sounded strange and far off, calling Hallo!
Hallo! , more like a pitiful moan it was. I lighted a pine
stick at the hearth and hurried as best I could through the
snow to where the voice was coming from. I stumbled
once and fell over a stump and the pine torch fell from
my hand. It sputtered in the snow and nearly went out
before I could pull myself up to my feet. And all the time
the voice seemed to be getting farther away. But it wasn t.
It was just getting weaker. In a few more steps I come on
the nag deep in a snowdrift up to its shanks and there
slumped over in the saddle was Dyke. His feet were froze
fast in the stirrups. He was numb and nigh speechless.
I wropt my shawl around him and hurried back to the
house, heated the fire poker red hot and with it I thawed
Dyke Garrett s boots loose from them wooden stirrups."
Aunt Sallie sighed. "Of course no mortal can tell when
salvation will take holt on their heart but after Granny
Partlow s baptizing and Dyke having to be thawed out of
his stirrups I was powerful thankful when the Spirit de
scended on a sinner in fair weather."
"It s not always womenfolks like Granny Partlow who
are slow to open their heart to the Spirit. Now take Cap
tain Anderson!
"In his home there never lived a more free-hearted man.
Loved to have folks come and stay as long as they liked.
Once I recall a man came to the county seat in court week.
He was making tintypes and charged a few cents for them.
Captain Anderson had his picture made and was so pleased
Land of Feuds and Stills 63
with it he coaxed the fellow to go home with him so that
he could get a tintype o Levicy and the children. He
never stopped until he had ten dollars worth of tintypes
and then he didn t want the fellow to leave. But he did.
Finally settled over on Beaver. His name was Jerome
Bailey and he died a rich man and always said he got his
start with the ten dollars he earned making tintypes for
Captain Anderson Hatfield."
Uncle Dyke reflected a long moment. "There s good in
all of us no matter how wicked we may seem to others.
And down deep in the heart of me I knew my Captain
would one day open his heart to salvation."
Anyone could tell you how the Good Shepherd of the
Hills through the long years had pleaded and prayed with
Devil Anse to forsake the thorny path, even far back when
they returned from the Home War. Already the Captain
of the Wildcats had made a notch on his gunstock by
killing Harmon McCoy in 1863. He was already the leader
of his clan. And all the time Uncle Dyke kept pleading
with his comrade to give up sin. But not until Uncle Dyke
Garrett had preached and prayed for nearly fifty years and
Devil Anse too had become an old man did he admit the
error of his way. Not until then were the patience, faith,
and hope of Uncle Dyke rewarded.
"It was one of the happiest days of my life/ he told me,
"when Captain Anderson took my hand. Sitting right here
we were together. It was in the falling weather. These hills
all around about were a blaze of glory, like they are today.
And here sat Captain Anderson, in this very rocking chair
where Miss Sallie is sitting now. We were alone. Miss
Sallie was busy with her posies down yonder near the gate.
Dyke/ says the Captain of the Logan Wildcats, in a voice
so soft I could scarce hear, Tve come into the light! I crave
64 Blue Ridge Country
to own my God and Redeemer. I long to go down into
the waters of baptism and be washed spotless of my trans
gressions/ I could not move hand or foot. My tongue clove
to the roof of my mouth. Captain Anderson gripped the
arms of the rocker there as if to steady himself. A man who
had tracked mountain lion and bear, panther and cata
mount. I could see the face of him, that old daredeviltry
vanish away and on his countenance a childlike look of
repentance. It took a heap o courage for Captain Ander
son to admit his transgressions even to me, his lifelong
friend. But I always knew that down deep in the heart of
him there was good and that his hour would come when
he d fall upon his knees before the Master and say, Here
I am, forgive me Lord, a poor sinner! But when the
words fell from his trembling lips I could not even cry
out in rejoicing, Thank God! , like I always aimed to do
when my comrade should come within the fold. I sat with
my jaws locked, my tongue stilled. Captain Anderson
spoke again. Dyke/ sez he, brother Dyke . . . I could
feel my heart pounding like it would burst out of my
breast. Brother Dyke/ he repeated the words slowly,
pleadingly, ain t you aimin to give me the hand of fel
lowship? Then, still unable to utter a word, I reached out
my hand and my comrade seized it, gripped it tight. There
we sat looking at each other and so Miss Sallie found us
as she came up the path there with her arms filled with
posies, golden glow, and scarlet sage, and snow-white
pretty-by-night just burst into bloom for it was sundown.
Men! said she, at last you re brothers in the faith! I know
it. Ah! I d know it from the look of peace on the faces of
the two of you, even if I did not witness the sign of your
hands clasped in fellowship! The next Sabbath day, it fell
like on the third Sunday of the month, we witnessed the
Land of Feuds and Stills 65
baptism of a once proud and desperate rebel. A rebel
against the Master! The baptism of him and six of his
sons as well who had not before received salvation/
Swiftly the word passed along the creeks and through
the quiet hollows. "Devil Anse has come through!" There
was great rejoicing throughout the West Virginia hills,
indeed throughout the southern mountains. Not only the
leader of the Hatfields, but six of his sons, had "got re
ligion" and "craved baptism." Hundreds flocked from out
the hollows of West Virginia and Kentucky to witness the
Hatfield baptizing.
That was another autumn day only a few years ago as
time goes.
The sun was sinking behind the mountain, casting long
shadows on the waters of Island Creek when the Good
Shepherd of the Hills moved slowly down the bank to the
water s edge. Behind him followed his old friend, no
longer the emboldened Devil Anse with fire in his eagle
eye, but a meek, a silent, penitent figure. The autumn
breeze stirred his snow-white hair, his scant gray beard.
Upon his breast the old clansman held respectfully his
wide-brimmed felt as he walked with head uplifted in sup
plication. Behind him followed his six sons. Jonse came
first, Jonse, who had loved pretty Rosanna McCoy, reck
less Jonse, who like his father had slain he alone knew
how many of the other side. Then came Cap, Ellas, Joseph,
Troy, Robert.
Slowly and with steady stride Uncle Dyke walked into
the water. Up to the waist he stood holding the frayed
Bible in his extended right hand. "Except ye shall repent
and go into the waters of baptism ye shall perish. But if
ye -repent and accept salvation, though your sins be as
scarlet they shall be washed whiter than snow," the voice
66 Blue Ridge Country
of the Good Shepherd of the Hills drifted down the
valley.
"Amen!" intoned the trembling voice of Devil Anse.
"Amen!" echoed the six sons grouped about their aged
sire.
Then Aunt Levicy, wife of the grim clansman, began
singing in a quavering voice:
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me;
I once was lost, but now I m found,
Was blind, but now I see.
The wives and daughters, mothers, sisters, and sweet
hearts of McCoys took up the doleful strain:
Twos grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.
"Hit s our sign of peace!" shouted old Aunt Emmie
McCoy clapping her palsied hands high above her head,
"the sign of peace twixt us and t other side!" Whereupon
Young Emmie McCoy, still in her teens, who had loved
Little Sid Hatfield since their first day at school on Mate
Creek, threw her arms about his sister and cried, "Can t
no one keep me and Little Sid apart from this day on."
"Amen!" the voice of Devil Anse led the solemn chant.
"Amen! God be praised!"
Jonse, the first-born of the Hatfields, bowed his head
and his deep-throated "Amen! God be praised!" echoed
down the valley. Then Cap and Troy, Tennis, Elias, Joe,
Willis, and the rest joined in. All eyes turned toward
Land of Feuds and Stills 67
Jonse. He who had loved pretty Rosanna McCoy when he
was a lad, she a shy little miss.
Many at the baptizing remembered the first meeting of
the two star-crossed lovers one autumn day long ago on
Blackberry Creek. The day when young Randall and ToK
bert, her brothers, were there. Old folks remembered too
the time when Devil Anse had slain Harmon McCoy. But
that was long ago and forgiven. "Let bygones be bygones, *
Levicy had pleaded with her mate, and Sarah, wife of Old
Randall, did likewise with her spouse. But only Levicy, of
the two sorely tried women, had survived to witness the
answer to her prayerspeace between the households with
the baptism of Devil Anse and his six sons.
As one by one they went down into the waters of bap
tism, it was the voice of Levicy Chafin Hatfield that led
in that best-loved hymn tune of the mountains:
On Jordan s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye
Toward Canaan s fair and happy land where my posses
sions lie.
I m bound for the Promised Land, I m bound for the
Promised Land.
Oh! who will come and go with me, I m bound for the
Promised Land.
The hills gave back the echo of their song.
It was a day of rejoicing.
As for Uncle Dyke Garrett he continued to journey up
and down the broad valley and through the hills, preach
ing the Gospel of repentance, forgiveness, salvation. Above
all he told of the baptism of Captain Anderson and his six
boys.
From the very first Dyke Garrett was more than a
preacher.
68 Blue Ridge Country
Along lonely creeks into quiet hollows he went to pray
at the bedside of the dying, to comfort the bereft, to re
joice with the penitent. In the early days he was the only
visitor beyond the family s own blood kin, so remote were
the homes of the settlers one from the other. Like a breath
from the outside world were Uncle Dyke s words of cheer,
while to him they in the lonely cabins were indeed voices
crying out in the wilderness. Nor did flood nor storm, his
own discomfort and hardship deter him. Winter and sum
mer, through storm and wind, he rode bearing the good
tidings to the people of the West Virginia ruggeds.
And now here he sat this autumn day in 1937, alert and
happy for all his ninety-six years. Bless you, he even talked
of fighting!
"If anyone jumped on these United States without a
good cause," he declared vehemently, "I d fight for my
country" Uncle Dyke didn t quibble his words. "That is
to say if Uncle Sam would take me. Me and my sword!"
Again he faltered, adding reflectively, "But after all the
Bible is the better weapon. With it I can conquer all
things."
Slowly he arose from his chair and Aunt Sallie and I
did likewise.
"Come," he invited, "I want you to see for yourself
where I ve baptized many a one that has come to me." He
pointed to a pool in the creek beyond the house where he
had made a small dam. As we stood together it was on the
tip of my tongue to ask how many couples he had bap
tized, how many he had married. Abruptly with the un
canny sense of the mountaineer he lifted the questions out
of my mind, though it could have been because so many
others had asked the same things. "I ve never kept count
of the wedding ceremonies I have performed, nor of the
Land of Feuds and Stills 69
baptisms/ he said thoughtfully. "I have always felt that
if it was the Lord s work I was doing, He would keep the
count."
You didn t have to ask Uncle Dyke Garrett either which
were the happiest days of his long life. You d know from
the look he bestowed upon his frail mate that his supreme
happy hour was when he married Miss Sallie Smith. "My
wedding day," he was saying as if the question had been
asked, "that was the happiest day of my whole life. And
next to that comes the day when the Lord chose me to
administer baptism to Captain Anderson and his six boys.
Such hours as these are a taste of heaven upon earth." His
voice was hushed with solemnity. His brimming eyes were
lifted to the hills. "Though it was a day of sorrow I am
grateful that it also fell to my lot to preach the funeral
of my lifelong friend Captain Anderson. Most of all
though, my heart rejoiced because Captain Anderson had
become like a little child, meek and penitent, worthy to
enter the fold."
Uncle Dyke sat silent a long time. His wrinkled hands
cupped bony knees. "It brought peace to Levicy s troubled
heart." His eyes grew misty with unshed tears. "I see her
now as she lay so peaceful in her shroud and on her bosom
the gold breast pin she prized so much that Captain An
derson brought her the time he was stormbound, when
he met that scalawag brother of Jesse James. She loved
posies did Levicy and every springtime we take some to
her grave, me and Miss Sallie."
At this, Miss Sallie, slipping her small hand through the
bend of his arm, led the way down the flower-bordered
path. "Posies are the brightness of a body s days," she said
softly. "You can t just set them out and they ll bloom big.
You have to work with them. Posies and human creatures
70 Blue Ridge Country
are a heap alike. Sometimes they have to be pampered.
Like Dyke here/ she smiled up at her aged mate. "I had
to understand his ways, else I d never have tamed him/
she persisted. "He s the last surviving one of his company
the Logan Wildcats." Aunt Sallie s blue eyes lighted with
pride. "I like to think of him outlasting me too."
I d remember them always as they stood there in the
sunset with the golden glow and scarlet sage and the snow-
white pretty-by-night all about thern^ the two smiling con
tentedly as I waved them good-by far down at the bend
of the road.
It was the last time I ever saw Uncle Dyke alive. The
next May 1938 he died. I was gratified that it fell to my
lot to attend his funeral. And what a worthy eulogy the
Reverend John McNeely, whom Uncle Dyke always re
ferred to as "my son in the Gospel/ preached, taking for
his text "My servant, Moses, is dead," a text that the two
had agreed upon long before the Good Shepherd of the
Hills passed away.
That day when the sermon was ended the great throng
that filled the valley and the hillsides, gathering about the
baptismal pool he himself had fashioned, sang Uncle
Dyke s favorite hymn. Their voices blending like the notes
of a giant organ swelled and filled the deep valley?
Like a star in the morning in its beauty,
Like the sun is the Bible to my soul.
Shining clear on the way of life and beauty,
As I hasten on my journey to the goal.
Tis a lamp in the wilderness of sorrow,
3 Tis a light on the weary pilgrim s way,
It will guide to the bright eternal morrow,
Shining more and more unto the Perfect Day.
Land of Feuds and Stills 71
Tis the voice of a friend forever near me,
In the toil and the battle here below,
In the gloom of the valley, it shall cheer me,
Till the glory of the kingdom I shall know.
I shall stand in its glory and its beauty,
Till the earth and the heavens pass away,
Ever telling the wondrous, blessed story
Of the loving Lamb, the only living way.
Uncle Dyke chose also his own grave site in the family
burying ground overlooking the house where he d lived
seventy-one years. Often he had visited the spot and picked
out the place beside him where Miss Sallie should be laid
to rest. His life had ended almost where it began. The
house in which he was born stands only a few miles from
that in which he died.
"He built this house his own self/ Aunt Sallie quietly
reiterated that evening as some of us lingered to comfort
her. "We came here to Big Creek soon as we married
We ve lived here seventy-one year." Through brimming
eyes she gazed toward the new-made grave. "We traveled
a long way together, me and Dyke" a sob shook the frail
little body "and now, I m goin to be mighty lonesome."
Big Meeting is still carried on just as Uncle Dyke
wished it.
In September, 1940, I went again to mingle with the
hundreds who show their reverence for the Good Shep
herd of the Hills by keeping fresh in memory his teaching
through their prayers and hymns at the Big Meeting each
autumn. And here again a worthy follower of Uncle Dyke
Garrett eulogized his deeds and mourned his loss. And
close by, for all her ninety-two years, his beloved Miss
Sallie, with a trembling hand on the arm of a kinsman,
72 Blue Ridge Country
listened intently while those who knew and loved him
extolled her lost mate.
And now Miss Sallie is gone too. She died on July 28,
1941, at the age of ninety-three and loving hands place
mountain flowers on her grave and that of Levicy Hatfield
far across the mountain.
TAKING SIDES
Some took sides in the feuds that have been carried on
throughout the Blue Ridge Country and thereby got
themselves enthralled, while others, more tactful, man
aged to keep aloof and remain friends with the bellig
erents.
There s Uncle Chunk Craft on Millstone Creek in
Letcher County. Enoch is his real name. There s nothing
he likes better than to tell of the days when he was one
of Morgan s raiders. Then, when he was only twenty-two,
that was in 1864, Uncle Chunk slept in a cornfield near
Greenville, Tennessee, the very night General John Hunt
Morgan, who had taken shelter in a house a couple of
miles away, was betrayed by the woman of the house and
shot to death by Unionists.
"We were tuckered out/ he said, "had tramped through
rain and mud and finally rolled in our blankets, if we
were lucky enough to have one, and fell asleep wherever
it was. I burrowed in with a comrade. But we didn t get
much rest. For, first thing you know, seemed I d just dozed
off, someone come shoutin through the cornfield that the
General had been killed. We shouldered our muskets and
stumbled off through the field, grumbling and growling
that we d tend to th ones that had betrayed him. But even
if the woman had been found I reckon we d a-shunned
Land of Feuds and Stills 73
killin her. There s a heap that goes on in war that a man
don t like to think on/
Uncle Chunk was proud to own, however, that he saw
hard fighting through Virginia, Tennessee, and Kentucky
and was glad enough when the war was ended. He came
back, married Polly Ann Caudill, and settled down in
Letcher. It wasn t long until another war started. This
time between his neighbors. But with all the carryings-on
between John Wright and Clabe Jones in the adjoining
counties of Floyd and Knott, Enoch Craft managed to stay
friends with both sides. Whichever side happened to round
in at his home, hungry and footsore from scouting in the
woods for the other faction, found a welcome at Uncle
Chunk s and plenty to eat. "Fill up the kittle, Polly Ann,"
he d call to his wife, as he went on digging potatoes. "Here
comes some of John Wright s crew." Or, "Put on the
beans, I see Clabe Jones s men comin !"
And fill up the kettle Polly Ann did.
After the belligerents had eaten their fill, Uncle Chunk
would try to reason with them to let the troubles drop.
"A man thinks better on a full gut than a empty one," he
argued. And at last, through his help, the Clabe Jones-
John Wright feud ended.
In Bloody Breathitt in 1886, Willie Sewell was shot
from ambush while making molasses on Frozen Creek.
That started feeling, for Willie had lots of kinfolks. He
himself was not without sin, for he had killed Jerry South.
The Souths were related to the Cockrells. But when Willie
Sewell, who was a half-brother of Jim and Elbert Hargis,
was shot the trouble, which became the Hargis-Cockrell
feud, really began.
A quarter of a century after one of the most famous of
74 Blue Ridge Country
Kentucky mountain trials when Curt Jett was tried for
the assassination of James B. Marcum and James Cock-
rell the trouble was revived with the killing of Clay Wat-
kins by Chester Fugate. This uprising, it was said, started
when Sewell Fugate was defeated by Clay Watkins for the
office of chairman of the county Board of Education.
Chester quarreled with Clay over a petty debt. Three years
before that time Amos, cousin of Chester, had shot and
killed Deputy Sheriff Green Watkins, brother of Clay.
When an enraged posse found Amos they filled him with
bullets. Sixty years before, Hen Kilburn, grandfather of
Chester Fugate, was taken from the county jail in Jackson
and lynched for killing a man. It was the first time such
a lynching had occurred at the county seat.
On Christmas morning in 1929, Chester Fugate was
taken from the same jail and shot to death, but not in the
courthouse yard. The posse took him out to a farm some
miles away. That was the second lynching in Bloody
Breathitt. There was a heavy snow on the ground, making
a soft carpet for the swiftly moving feet of the mob num
bering more than a score, as they hurried their victim
away. Before entering Fugate s cell, they had bound the
jailer, S. L. Combs, to make sure of no interference from
that source.
Some miles from the county seat they stopped in a
thicket on a farm.
That morning farmer Jones got up before daylight and
with lantern on arm went out to milk the cows and feed
the stock. He halted suddenly in the unbeaten snow for
from a nearby thicket came a strange sound. At first the
farmer thought it the moaning of a trapped animal. Hold
ing the lantern overhead he stumbled on a few yards to
find Chester Fugate in a pool of blood that stained the
Land of Feuds and Stills 75
snow all about the crumpled figure. Bleeding profusely
from thirteen gunshot wounds, Chester survived long
enough to give the names of at least six of his assailants.
It was another outbreak in the Hargis-Cockrell feud.
Five of the men in the mob surrendered. They were
bound over and released on bail. All were kin of Clay
Watkins: Samuel J. was his brother, L. K. Rice his son-
in-law, Allie Watkins his son, and Earl and Bent Howard
were his nephews. The men signed their own bonds to
gether with Jack Howard, uncle of Bent and Earl. The
name of Elbert Hargis was also affixed to the bonds. The
sixth man named by Chester Fugate before he died was
Lee Watkins, a cousin of Clay, who said he would sur
render.
The trouble went back more than a quarter of a cen
tury when Curtis Jett his friends called him Curt and
others assassinated James B. Marcum and James Cockrell.
Curt was a nephew of county Judge James Hargis, who
was said by some to be the master mind behind the mur
ders.
The state militia was called out to preserve order dur
ing the trial.
Things had been turbulent in Breathitt before. Back in
1878 Judge William Randall fled the bench after the slay
ing of county Judge John Burnett and his wife. However,
the commencement of the Hargis-Cockrell feud in 1899
was over a contested election of county officers. The Fu-
sionists or Republicans declared their men the winners,
while the Democrats were equally certain of triumph.
James Hargis was the Democrats candidate for county
judge, Ed Callahan for sheriff.
The leading law firm in all of eastern Kentucky at the
time was that of James B. Marcum and O. H. Pollard, but
76 Blue Ridge Country
when the election contest arose, the men dissolved part
nership. Marcum represented the Republican contestants,
his former partner looked to the affairs of the Democrats.
Until this time Marcum had been a close personal friend
as well as legal adviser to James Hargis.
Depositions for the contestants were being taken in
Marcum s office when the two lawyers almost came to
blows over Pollard s cross-examination of a witness, with
Hargis and Callahan sitting close by. Harsh words were
uttered and pistols drawn, and Hargis, Callahan, and Pol
lard were ordered from Marcum s office. When warrants
were issued for them and Marcum also by police Judge
T. P. Cardwell, Marcum appeared in court and paid a fine
of twenty dollars. But Jim Hargis refused to be tried by
Cardwell the two men had been bad friends for some
time. Then, instead of attempting alone the arrest of
. Hargis, the town marshal of Jackson, Tom Cockrell, called
on his brother Jim to lend a hand.
It is said that when Tom went to arrest Hargis the
latter refused to surrender, drawing his gun. But Tom
covered Jim Hargis first. Whereupon Hargis s friend, Ed
Callahan, who was close, covered Tom Cockrell and in
the bat of an eye Jim Cockrell, his brother, covered Cal
lahan. Seeing that the Cockrells had the best of them, both
Jim Hargis and Ed Callahan surrendered. That incident
passed without bloodshed and Marcum himself sent word
to police Judge Cardwell that he didn t want to prosecute
Hargis and asked that the case be dismissed, as it was.
That same year there was a school election.
"Marcum flew in a rage," said Hargis, "when I accused
him of trying to vote a minor and he pulled his pistol on
ine but did not shoot."
Though that difference was also patched up, the fami-
Land of Feuds and Stills 77
lies began taking sides in the many quarrels that followed.
Accusations were made first by one side, then the other.
Marcum accused Callahan of killing his uncle, and Cal-
lahan in turn charged that his father had been slain by
Marcum s uncle.
In July, 1902, the flames of the feud were fanned to
white heat.
Tom Cockrell, a minor, fought a pistol duel with Ben
Hargis, Jim s brother, in a blind tiger, leaving Ben dead
upon the floor. Tom was defended by his kinsman, J. B.
Marcum, without fee. Tom s guardian, Dr. B. D. Cox, one
of the leading physicians in Jackson, was married to a
Cardwell whose family belonged to the Cockrell clan.
It was not long after Ben Hargis s death that his brother
John, "Tige," was slain by Jerry Cardwell. Jerry claimed
that it was in the exercise of his duty as train detective.
"Tige was disorderly," Jerry said, "when I tried to ar
rest him."
Anyway pistols were fired; Jerry was only wounded but
Tige was killed. His death was followed shortly by that of
Jim Hargis s half-brother. The shot came from ambush
one night while he was making sorghum at his home, and
no one knew who fired it.
On another night not long thereafter, Dr. Cox, who was
guardian of the minor Tom Cockrell and the other Cock
rell children, was hurrying along the streets of Jackson
to the bedside of a patient.
When the doctor reached the corner across from the
courthouse and in almost direct line with Judge Hargis s
stable, he dropped with a bullet through the heart. An
other shot was fired at close range and lodged in the doc
tor s body.
The evidence disclosed that at the time of the shoot*
78 Blue Ridge Country
ing Judge Hargis and Ed Callahan were standing together
in the rear of Hargis s stable from which direction the
shots came. The Cockrells stated that Dr. Cox had been
slain because of his family relationship with them and be
cause of his participation in the defense of young Tom
Cockrell, his ward.
The story of Dr. Cox s death was still on many lips when
Curt Jett, who was Sheriff Ed Callahan s deputy, met Jim
Cockrell in the dining room of the Arlington Hotel where
they engaged in a quarrel and exchange of bullets. Neither
was injured, but -bad feeling continued between them.
Sometime during the morning of July 28, 1902, Curt
and a couple of friends concealed themselves in the court
house. At noon that day, in broad daylight, Jim Cockrell
was shot dead on the street from a second-story window
of the building. Across the way, from, a second-story win
dow of Hargis s store, Judge Jim Hargis and Sheriff Ed
Callahan saw the shooting.
Jim Cockrell had assisted his brother, the town mar
shal, in arresting Jim Hargis and was the recognized
leader of the Cockrell faction. He had spared no effort
in obtaining evidence in his brother s behalf when young
Tom was tried for killing Ben Hargis in the blind tiger.
Under cover of darkness Curt Jett and his companions
were spirited away from the courthouse on horseback and
no arrests were made.
In the meantime the trial of young Tom Cockrell for
killing Ben Hargis was moved to Campton, but Judge Jim
Hargis and his brother, Senator Alex Hargis, declared that
they d never reach Campton alive if they should go there
to prosecute young Tom. So the case was dismissed. "Our
enemies would kill us somewhere along the mountain
road," the Hargises declared.
Land of Feuds and Stills 79
Jim Hargis loved his wife and children. He idolized his
son Beach, who spent his days hanging around his father s
store and squandering money that the doting parent sup
plied.
Up to November 9, 1902, according to information sup
plied by J. B. Marcum, there had been thirty persons
killed in Breathitt County as a result of the feeling be
tween the factions and to quote Marcum s own words,
"the Lord only knows how many wounded."
After Marcum s assassination on May 4, 1903, his widow
wrote the Lexington Herald that there had been thirty-
eight homicides in Breathitt County during the time
James Hargis presided as county judge. J. B. Marcum and
his wife both had known for a long time that he was a
marked man. Indeed, ever since he had represented the
Fusionists in contesting the election of Jim Hargis as
county judge, it was an open secret that Marcum would
meet his doom sooner or later. Added to this was the
animosity aroused on the Hargis side by Marcum s defense
of young Tom Cockrell for killing Jim Hargis s brother
Ben.
Marcum made an affidavit which he filed in the
Breathitt Circuit Court declaring that he was marked for
death. Others substantiated his statement by swearing to
various plots that had been concocted to assassinate him.
As a matter of feet while the feeling was raging high in
the contest case he was a prisoner in his own home for
seventy-two days, afraid to step out on his own porch. To
protect himself against bullets he had a barricade built
joining the rear of his house with a small yard. Whenever
he left his home, which was seldom, he was accompanied
by his wife and he carried one of his small children.
Once he went to Washington and stayed a month. It
80 Blue Ridge Country
was during that time that his friend Dr. Cox was assassi
nated. A client of Marcum s by the name of Mose Feltner
came to his home to acquaint the lawyer with a plot
against his life. Mose told how he had been given thirty-
five dollars to commit the deed and a shotgun for the pur
pose. He also took Marcum to a woods and showed where
four Winchester rifles had been concealed by him and his
three companions. The guns, Mose said, were kept there
during the day but were carried at night so that if he or
his companions met Marcum they were prepared to kill
him. The plot, so Mose declared, was to entice Marcum to
his office on some pretext or other. Mose was to waylay him
and pull the trigger. Mose went further. He told Marcum
that the county officials had promised him immunity from
punishment if he would carry out the plot and kill Mar
cum. When at last the election contest furore had quieted
down Marcum concluded it was safe to venture forth to
his law office and resume his practice.
On the morning of May 4th he had gone to the court
house to file some papers in the case. He lingered for a
while in the corridor to greet this one and that, then
walked slowly through the corridor toward the front door.
From where he stood talking with a friend, Benjamin
Ewen, Marcum could see across the street Judge James
Hargis and Sheriff Ed Callahan sitting in rocking chairs
in front of Hargis s store. When the shots were fired that
killed Marcum neither Hargis nor Callahan stirred. Their
view was uninterrupted when the lifeless body plunged
forward. They remained seated in their rocking chairs,
looking neither to right nor to left. They made no effort
to find out who did the shooting.
"My God! they have killed me!" cried Marcum as bul-
Land of Feuds and Stills 81
lets struck through the spine and skull and he lunged for
ward dead.
Curt Jett, tall and angular with red hair and deep-set
blue eyes, a man of many escapades, was convicted of the
murder and sent to the penitentiary for life. The evidence
of Captain B. J. Ewen, with whom Marcum was talking
when shot, disclosed that Tom White, one of the con
spirators, walked past Marcum glaring at him to attract
his attention. As he did so Curt in the rear of the hallway
of the courthouse fired the shots. Curt Jett s mother was
a sister to Judge Hargis, and Curt, though only twenty-
four at the time, was a deputy under Ed Callahan.
Nine years later on the morning of May 4, 1912, Ed
Callahan, while sitting in his store at Crockettsville, a vil
lage some twenty-five miles from Jackson, the county seat,
was killed. Callahan too was a marked man and knew it.
Connecting his house and the store he had built a stockade
to insure his safety as he passed from one to the other.
There was a telephone on the wall near the back window
of the store and he had just hung up the receiver after
talking to a neighbor when two bullets in quick succes
sion whizzed through the window from somewhere across
the creek. One entered Callahan s breast, the other his
thigh. Members of his family rushed to his side and car
ried him, sheltered by the stockade, to his home where
he died.
The old law of Moses, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth" still prevailed.
It is estimated that from 1902, when the Hargis-Cockrell
feud started over an election contest, to 1912, more than
one hundred men had lost their lives.
Like the feuds of Scotland, those of the southern moun
tains usually found kin standing by kin, but sometimes
82 Blue Ridge Country
they quarreled and killed each other. In the Hargis-Cock-
rell feud, Marcum s sister was the wife of Alex Hargis.
Curt Jett s mother was a half-sister to Alex and Jim Hargis.
His father was a brother of the mother of the Cockrells,
Tom and Jim. Yet Curt was openly accused of killing Jim
Cockrell. Dr. Cox, who was slain early in the fray, was the
guardian of young Tom Cockrell and Mrs. Cox was a
sister of the police judge of Jackson, T. P. Cardwell, Jr.,
who was in office when he issued warrants for Marcum,
Jim Hargis, and Ed Callahan when they had quarreled in
Pollard s law office at the time depositions were being
taken in the election contest.
Though Curt Jett, Mose Feltner, John Abner, and John
Smith confessed to the assassination of J. B. Marcum, say
ing Jim Hargis and Ed Callahan planned the crime,
Hargis and Callahan protested innocence. Even so Mar
cum s widow got a judgment for $8000 against the two
for killing her husband. After John Smith confessed and
was dismissed he turned bitterly against Hargis and Calla
han and their faction and was suspected of attempting to
assassinate Callahan a year before the deed was accom
plished.
Around the store of Judge James Hargis conversation
turned often to the troubles. If a woman came in to buy
a can of baking powder she looked stealthily about before
gossiping with another. If a man entered to buy a plug of
tobacco or a poke of nails to mend a barn or fence, his
swift eye swept the faces of customers and loiterers and
presently he d sidle off to one side and talk with some of
his friends.
Young Beach Hargis, upon whom, his father doted,
heard this talk. He knew of the feeling of the different
ones connected with the trouble. It was talked not only
Land of Feuds and Stills 83
around the store but in the Hargis home. When the father
wasn t about Beach and his mother mulled it over. Beach
never was a lad to work. "Why should I?" he argued. "Pa s
got plenty. And I aim to get what s coming to me while
the old man s living."
If the father protested that Beach was squandering too
much money, the mother shielded her son and wheedled
Jim Hargis into giving him more.
"He s been pampered too much, Louellen/ Judge Har
gis often remonstrated with his wife. "Should we spare
the rod and spoil the child?" And sometimes Evylee,
Beach s sister, would plead with her father to forgive
Beach once again for drunkenness and waywardness.
Evylee had been away to school at Oxford University in
Ohio near Cincinnati. She loved the nice things of life,
particularly learning. Judge Hargis was an indulgent
father. He wanted his children to have the best, both in
education and dress. He wanted his boy Beach to go
through college. But Beach had no v fondness for book-
learning or fine clothes.
"I ve give up trying to do anything with him, Louellen/
said Jim Hargis to his wife one day when they were to
gether in the sitting room of their home. "Look yonder
there he goes." He pointed a condemning finger at Beach
reeling drunk along the sidewalk.
"Don t fret, Pa/* Mrs. Hargis pleaded with her hus
band. "He s young. He ll mend his ways. Don t forsake
him/
That was the day before the homicide.
Next day Beach was still drunk. He swaggered into the
store, leered about for his father, and not seeing him
stumbled on past the racks where the guns lay, past the
shelves laden with cartridges and shells, on into the rear
84 Blue Ridge Country
room where coffins were lined in a somber row. Judge
Hargis kept a general store that carried in stock most any
thing you could call for from baking soda and beeswax to
plows, guns and coffins. Beach didn t notice the black-
covered coffins or the guns. He stumbled along to a cor
ner of the wareroom where he slumped on a keg of nails.
There he sat a while mumbling to himself. His eyes were
bloodshot, his face swollen from a fall or a fight. "The
old man punched me in the jaw/ he kept repeating, "and
ni-ni-"
Frightened clerks hurried past him in waiting upon
customers. No one tried to listen or understand. Beach
kept on mumbling. After a while he staggered out again.
Later that same day he went to a barber shop for a shave
and haircut. Suddenly he raised up from the chair and
leering toward the street muttered at a man passing, "I
thought that was the old man going yonder." It was not
Judge Hargis, the barber assured Beach, so the drunken
fellow settled back in the chair and the barber proceeded
to lather his face.
. Beach s sister, who was married to Dr. Hogg, often took
her drunken brother in.
"Evylee s got no right to harbor Beach," Judge Hargis
complained to his wife. "He s tore up our home and he
will do the same for Evylee and her husband and for Dr.
Hogg s business too. He s a plum vagabond and spoiled.
And put on top of that whiskey, and a gun in his hand,
the Lord only knows what that boy will do."
Out of one scrape into another, in jail and out, Beach
Hargis went his way. The mother pleading with the father
to forgive him and let him have another chance. The sis
ter pleaded with Beach to quit drinking and carousing.
On the lyth day of February, 1908, Beach, still maudlin
Land of Feuds and Stills 85
drtink, went again into his father s store. He didn t look
at the guns in the racks this time. He glanced toward the
wareroom where the black coffins stood in a row on
wooden horses. "I m looking for the old man," he mut
tered to a clerk. Then he reeled toward the counter and
asked the clerk to give him a pistol. The clerk refused,
saying he could not take a pistol out of stock, but added,
"Your Pa s pistol is yonder in his desk drawer. You can
take that."
Beach helped himself.
In the meantime Judge Hargis had come into the store
just as Beach, with the pistol concealed in his shirt, went
out,
In the drugstore of his brother-in-law, Dr. Hogg, Beach
terrorized customers and the proprietor by pointing his
pistol around promiscuously. He reeled out of the place
without firing, however, and went back to his father s
store. Someone later said all he had been drinking was a
bottle of Brown s Bitters.
From where Judge Hargis stood in one part of the
double storeroom he could see Beach sitting cross-legged
in a chair near the front door. Beach spat on his shoe
and slowly whetted his pocket knife, scowling sullenly
now and then in his father s direction. He clicked the
blade of his knife shut and slipped it into his pocket and
sat with his arms dangling at his sides, head slumped on
his breast.
A customer came in and asked Judge Hargis, "Where s
Beach?"
The father pointed to the son. "There he is. I
have done all I can for him and I cannot go about him
or have anything to do with him." Then Judge Hargis
repeated that Beach was destroying his business and would
86 Blue Ridge Country
do the same with Dr. Hogg s business if Evylee kept on
harboring him.
Not a word was spoken between father and son. But
as Jim Hargis walked in his direction, Beach pulled him
self up out of his chair, stepped around behind the spool
case that stood on the end of the counter, leered at his
father and moved toward him. Beach came within three
feet of his father. The next thing they were grappling.
Terrified bystanders and clerks heard the report of five
pistol shots. All five of the shots lodged in Jim Hargis s
body. By this time the two men were on the floor. The
father holding the son down with one arm, lifted in his
right the smoking pistol. "He has shot me all to pieces,"
gasped Judge Hargis as he handed the pistol to a by
stander. He died in a few minutes.
Loyal to her unfortunate son, Louellen, the widow of
Judge Hargis, set about to get the ablest lawyers in the
state to defend him. Will Young, matchless orator of
Rowan County, was not able to clear Beach on the first
trial. On the second, however, aided by the legal skill of
Governor William O. Bradley, D. B. Redwine, J. J. C.
Bach, Sam H. Kash, and Thomas L. Cope, Beach was
sentenced to the penitentiary for life instead of the gal
lows.
As the years went by the mother continued to plead
for her son s freedom. Time and again she made the jour
ney to Frankfort to beg mercy of the governor. Weary
and sad she lingered outside the door of the mansion. She
hovered close to the entrance of the chief executive s suite
in the capitol, pleading by look, if word was denied her.
Finally the governor pardoned Beach Hargis, because, it
was said, His Excellency could no longer bear the sight
L,and of Feuds and Stills 87
of the heartbroken mother. Beach was pardoned on prom
ise of good behavior.
But scarcely was he back in Breathitt County when
pistol shots were heard again. He rode out to the farm of
relatives a few miles from Jackson and when the women
folk spied him galloping up the lane they took to the
attic in terror. Beach, reeling drunk, staggered into the
dining room where the table was set for dinner. There
was a platter of fried chicken, another of hot biscuits. He
shot all the biscuits off the plate, threw the chicken out
the door and didn t stop till he had riddled every dish on
the table.
The womenfolk up in the attic, with fingers to ears,
stared white and trembling at each other. Finally one
of the girls reached out of the small window up under
the eaves and, with the aid of a branch from the cherry
tree close by, caught hold of the rope on the farm belL
Once the rope was in her hand she pulled it quickly again
and again. The clanging of the bell brought the men from
the fields but as they approached on the run through the
cornfield and potato patch, Beach threw a leg over his
horse and galloped away, shooting into the air.
He continued on the rampage. Out of one scrape into
another.
His mother died of a broken heart. She had done all
she could for her son but Beach Hargis went his reckless
way.
He was sent to prison a second time, for the safety of
all concerned, but he escaped about the time of the World
War. No one has seen hide or hair of him since then.
There have been many conjectures as to his whereabouts
but no one really knows what has come of Judge Jim
Hargis s slayer.
Blue Ridge Country
There is a fine State College in Morehead, Rowan
County, Kentucky, where Judge Will Young, whose elo
quence saved Beach from the gallows, lived and died. On
the college campus there is a Hargis Hall, named for
Thomas F. Hargis, a Democrat and captain in the Con
federate Army, and a relative of the reckless Beach.
As for Beach s cousin, Curt Jett, accused of murder,
rape, and even the betrayal of a pretty mountain girl,
convicted of the slaying of J. B. Marcum, he was pardoned
from the penitentiary, got religion, and was, the last heard
from, preaching the gospel through the mountains of
Kentucky.
For all the shedding of blood of kith and kin in the
Hargis-Cockrell feud, when our country was plunged into
the World War, Bloody Breathitt had no draft quota be
cause so many of her valiant sons hastened to volunteer.
Although many of the feuds in the Blue Ridge grew
out of elections, they were not prompted by ambition, for
the offices contested were not high ones like that of sena
tor or congressman. Frequently they were lesser posts such
as that of sheriff or jailer or school-board trustee. When
the strife finally led to assassination the motive usually
was the desire for safety. The one feared had to be re
moved by death.
One famous feud, however, was started over the posses
sion of a wife s kitchen apron.
Tom Dillam s wife left him and one day passing his
farm she spied a woman working in the field wearing one
of her aprons. Mrs. Dillam flew into a rage, climbed the
rail fence, and deliberately snatched the apron off the
other woman. Tom went after her to the home of his
father-in-law, John Bohn, to recover the apron. He
Land of Feuds and Stills 89
quarreled with his wife and instantly killed Bohn who
tried to interfere.
As the quarrels continued and the years went by, Dillam
incited his relatives and friends and armed them as well.
He finally had behind him a band of outlaws. In 1885,
about the time the Martin-Tolliver feud in Rowan County
was at its height, Mrs. Dillam s brother William had a
dispute over timber with her estranged husband s brother
George. Bohn killed Dillam but as he ran for shelter he
himself was slain by two other brothers of Dillam, Sam
and Curt.
As the feeling grew others were drawn into the fray.
Brothers opposed brothers. The Dillams* sister was mar
ried to Lem Buffum, and because of Buffum s friendship
with the Bohns he was hated by the Dillams.
There was a dance one Christmas night at which two
of the Dillam band were slain by Buffum. From then on
Sam Dillam dogged the steps of Lem Buffum who
finally killed his tormentor. This so enraged the Dillam
band they started a reign of terror. They were openly out
to get any Buffum sympathizer. They riddled their homes
with bullets, burned barns, waylaid the sympathizers and
shot them to death without warning. Once a friend of the
Buffums , Jack Smith, when the Buffum home was be
sieged, rushed in and carried out the aged mother of Lem.
He bore her down to the river and leaping into a skiff
rowed the old woman safely to the other side. On his re
turn the Dillams shot him to death from ambush.
In such a high-handed fashion did they carry on their
warfare that they made bold to seize Jake Kimbrell, a
Buffum friend, at a dance. While some of the Dillam band
held their prisoner f-ast other members of the crew shot
him to death.
90 Blue Ridge Country
Their utter cruelty finally caused even some of their
own faction to withdraw from the feud. Tom Dillam s
brother Ab said outright that if they wanted to go on
hunting Lem Buffum and terrorizing the country they d
have to do it without him. Lem s sister was married to
Ab s son Jesse. One day in his absence they set upon Ab s
house and shot it as full of holes as a sieve.
Women and children were no longer safe and the citi
zens decided something had to be done for protection.
They asked the governor for troops. His refusal was bol
stered by the alibi that first it was the duty of the sheriff
of the county to attempt to capture the murderers. Then
the judge of the county called for fifty militiamen. Instead
of that number only fifteen came to restore law and order.
But even before they arrived on the scene a lad on horse
back saw them coming and galloped off to inform the
outlaws who took to the woods.
With seven of the sheriff s men left to guard the home
and family of Jesse Dilliam, Jesse and several others sought
safety in a log house some distance away. However, before
they could reach the log house one of their number was
killed, one fled and the rest managed to escape into a
nearby thicket.
When circuit court convened soon afterward the Dillam
brothers, Tom and Curt, were arrested. Tom, having been
released on a $5000 bail, was going toward the court
house one day with his lawyer. Following close behind
was Tom s lieutenant and another friend. On the way
they passed the house where their wounded victims were
staying and when within range of the place the outlaws
drew their pistols. They did not know that Lem Buffum
and his friends had been warned and were waiting for this
moment. Suddenly a volley of bullets was poured upon
L.and of Feuds and Stills 91
the outlaws. Sixteen of the well-aimed shots had pierced
Tom Dillam s body.
Hatred and lust for murder had by this time gone deep
into the heart of Tom s son who became the leader of the
band. If anyone opposed him in anything, he knew but
one way to take care of the opposition and that by the gun.
He gave one of the Dillam band twenty dollars and a gun
to slay a rival. Tom s brother Curt was finally released
on bail but it was not long until his bullet-torn body was
found in the woods.
Fear on the part of those who had testified against the
outlaw in his trial impelled the removal for all time of
the cause of fear. The universe breathed easier after Tom s
brother Curt was under the sod.
MARTIN-TOLUVER TROUBLES
Troubles brewed around elections and courts.
Some years previously when the Talliaferro families
changed their abode from Old Virginia to settle in Mor
gan County, Kentucky, it wasn t long until their name
also was changed. Their neighbors found the name Tallia
ferro difficult to speak and they began to shorten the
syllables to something that sounded like Tolliver. So Tolli-
ver it was from then on.
Craig Tolliver s father became a prosperous fanner but
with his prosperity came quarrels with a neighbor and
finally a lawsuit. Tolliver was successful in the litigation
which incensed his neighbors. One night as he lay asleep
in his bed the irate neighbors stealthily entered the house
and shot him dead before the eyes of his fourteen-year-old
son, Craig.
This early sight of high-handed murder embittered the
92 Blue Ridge Country
boy who at once began to carry a gun and drink and lead
a life of lawlessness.
In about 1880 he moved to Rowan County which be
came the scene of one of the bloodiest of Kentucky feuds,
that of the Martins and Tollivers. Craig was the leader of
his side. Gaunt and wiry, he stood six feet in his boots.
His long drooping mustache was a sandy color like his
goatee. His eyes, a light blue, were shifty and piercing,
eyes that had the look of a snake charming a bird* In ap
pearance Craig was a typical desperado. He swaggered
about with gun at belt, a whiskey bottle on his hip.
At this time the secret ballot had not yet been insti
tuted. Not only was the name of the voter called out but
his choice as well. With the open ballot a man who bought
votes knew how they were cast. Bribery and whiskey, both
of which were plentiful and freely dispensed at voting
time, went hand-in-hand with fights and corruption.
The stage was set for bloody feud in Rowan County by
the time Cook Humphrey in 1884 ran for sheriff of the
county on the Republican ticket against S. B. Gooden,
Democrat *
That election day in August a group of men gathered
in the courthouse yard at Morehead, the county seat, dis
cussing the returns in heated tones.
Gooden lived in the town while his opponent lived
about seven miles away on his father s farm.
"Cook Humphrey won by twelve votes," someone
called out. At that a quarrel started. Fists were flying in
the air. William Trumbo, kin of John Martin s wife who
was Lucy Trumbo, made a remark to a man by the name
of Price. And the next thing they were in a wrangle. There
were Tollivers and Martins present as well as friends of
both families and soon all of them were engaged in the
Land of Feuds and Stills 93 *
controversy. Someone struck John Martin, supposedly
with the butt of a gun, knocking out a front tooth and
badly cutting his head. His blood stained the courthouse
steps. As he scrambled to his feet cursing vengeance against
John Day and Floyd Tolliver for wounding him, he drew
his pistol and others did likewise.
The next moment Sol Bradley, the father of seven chil
dren, lay dead with a bullet through his brain. Young Ad
Sizemore caught a bullet in the neck.
There was a dispute as to whether John Martin or Floyd
Tolliver had killed Sol Bradley, who was a friend and
partisan of Cook Humphrey. It was never decided who
did the killing. But it started the Martin-Tolliver troubles.
The wounding of Ad Sizemore was generally laid to
Sheriff John Day.
Forthwith the factions organized and armed themselves.
There were Martins, Sizemores, and Humphrey on one
side, Days and Tollivers on the other side.
John Martin, the son of Ben, lived not far from his
father on Christy Creek, a few miles from Morehead. His
brothers, Will and Dave, resided nearby. They had a sister,
Sue, who was as fearless as the menfolks of her family.
She resented bitterly the treatment of the Martins by the
other side. Sue lived at home with her father and mother.
The Tollivers were more widely scattered. Floyd lived
in Rowan, Marion and Craig in Morgan County, their
cousins Bud, Jay, and Wiley lived in Elliott County.
Their clansmen, all Democrats, including Tom Allen
Day and his brothers Mitch, Boone, and John, also Mace
Keeton, Jeff and Alvin Bowling, James Oxley, and Bob
Messer lived in Rowan County.
The Martins, Logans, and Matt Carey, the county clerk,
all Republicans and friends of Cook Humphrey, newly
94 Blue Ridge Country
elected sheriff, resented the killing of Sol Bradley, an in
nocent bystander.
There had been whisperings of threats laid to both
sides. "As soon as the leaves put out good, I aim to get
Floyd," Martin is reported to have said. Similar mutter-
ings were reported to have been uttered by Tolliver. "Ill
bide my time till the brush gets green; then I aim to have
a reckoning. That Logan outfit, well-wishers of the Mar
tins, are getting too uppity."
It was Fentley Muse who told a tale-bearer that no good
could come of such things and urged that all keep peace.
But peace bonds were violated as fast as they were made.
Pledges by Craig Tolliver to leave the county for good
and all were broken.
There was more tale-bearing. There were those who,
according to John Martin s son Ben, later a World War
hero, made the bullets for others to shoot, including one,
a doctor, whom I knew well in later years. Ben Martin said
of him angrily, "He filled more graves than any other man
in Rowan County and yet he himself never fired a shot."
Ben s aged mother, Mrs. Lucy Trumbo Martin, reiterated
this often to me when I sat beside her on the porch of the
old Cottage Hotel on Railroad Street in Morehead where
much of the shooting took place. Indeed the old hostelry
had been the scene of one of the fiercest gun battles be
tween the Martins and Tollivers. It faced the Central Hotel
across the tracks. The Gait House, the name by which the
Carey combined boarding house and grocery-saloon was
known during the Rowan County troubles, stood some
distance away across the road from the courthouse.
It was a bleak day in December, 1884, following the
August election in Rowan County when John Martin was
struck on the head, that he and his wife Lucy and two of
Land of Feuds and Stills 95,
their small children climbed into their jolt wagon out on
Christy Creek and rode into town. While his wife and
the children went to do some trading at a general store
down the road, John met Sam Gooden, John Day, and
Floyd Tolliver. Words passed between Martin and Tolli-
ver after which John went into Carey s saloon. As he stood
at the bar Floyd Tolliver came up and repeated what he
had said to Martin outside something to the effect that
Martin had been wanting to bulldoze him. Martin denied
the charge but Tolliver repeated, "Yes, by God, you have,
and I am not going to permit it." To which Martin an
swered, "If you must have a fight, I am ready for you."
At this Floyd put his hand in his pocket. Martin, thinking,
so his wife and son told me, that Floyd Tolliver was about
to draw his gun, drew his own in self-defense. Though
Martin was quicker on the trigger than Tolliver, who
now had his gun out of the holster, Martin did not have
time to get his weapon completely out of his pocket. He
shot through it, killing Floyd Tolliver almost instantly.
"Boys," Floyd managed to gasp, turning his eyes toward
friends who rushed into the bar, "remember what you
swore to do. You said you would kill him and you must
keep your word."
Martin gave himself up to the law. By this time a mob,
friends of both sides, had gathered around and Martin
was hurried, half dragged, across the road to the jail be
hind the courthouse.
In order to protect the prisoner from violence he was
taken to the Winchester, Kentucky, jail next day. But he
had been there only six days when a band of five men
presented themselves to the jailer with an order, appar
ently signed by the proper authorities, commanding Mar*
tin s return to Rowan County. He pleaded with the jailer
96 Blue Ridge Country
not to surrender him. "It is only a plot to kill me," he
cried
That day Martin s wife had been to see him in his cell.
She took him some cornbread and a clean shirt and socks.
Little did she dream when she got on the train to return
to Morehead that night that her husband sat handcuffed
in the baggage coach ahead. Around the prisoner stood
his five captors: Alvin Bowling, Edward and Milt Evans,
a man named Hall, and another by the name of Eastman.
When the train was within five miles of the county seat
of Rowan, at a village called Farmers, it was boarded by
several masked men who rushed into the baggage car and
shot John Martin, helpless and handcuffed, to death.
"They ve killed him!" Lucy Trumbo Martin screamed
at the sound of the first shot, though until that moment
she had not known her husband was on the train. "I knew
they had killed John," she told her friends at the time and
often afterward.
When the train bearing John Martin s bullet-torn body
reached Morehead he was carried, still breathing, into the
old Central Hotel where he died that night. In the mean
time his distracted wife had sent for their children and
her mother who was staying with the family on the farm
on Christy Creek. An old darky who had long lived at the
county seat mounted his half-blind mule and rode out
along the lonely creek that cold winter night to carry the
sad tidings to the Martin household. He also rode ahead
of them on the journey back with the corpse of John Mar
tin later that same night.
"Hesh!" Granny Trumbo warned the children huddled
in the bed of the wagon as it rumbled along the creek
bed road, "Hesh! no telling who s hid in the bresh to
kill us." The children sobbed fearfully. Ben, the older
Land of Feuds and Stitts 97
of the two small boys, sat dry-eyed. His small hands sought
those of his father cold in death and still in irons. "Pa,
they didn t give you no chance," he murmured bitterly.
"You were helpless as a trapped deer. They didn t give
you no chance."
It wasn t a cry of revenge but of heartbreak, one that
the mother and the other children would remember al
ways. And Granny Trumbo, sitting bravely erect on the
board seat of the wagon beside her widowed daughter,
gripped the reins and urged the weary team onward along
the frozen road, keeping close behind the silent horseman
ahead.
In March of the following year another of the Martin
side, Stewart Bumgartner, a deputy sheriff of Cook Hum
phrey, was shot from ambush as he rode along the road
some six miles from Morehead.
A month later Taylor Young, county attorney of Rowan,
was shot in the shoulder as he rode along another lonely
road in the county. Though Young heartily disclaimed
any connection with either side, he was accused by the
Martins of being a well-wisher of the Tollivers. Again,
as in the Bumgartner case, no arrests were made. How
ever, when Ed Pierce was convicted some time later of
highway robbery and jailed in Montgomery County, he
confessed to waylaying Taylor Young but put the blame
of the actual shooting on Ben Rayburn. Pierce said it was
plotted by Sheriff Humphrey who assured him and Ray-
burn of all the whiskey they could drink and two dollars
a day while they were watching for Young; when they had
killed him they were to receive two hundred and fifty
dollars.
After that, one Sunday morning, Craig Tolliver, who
was town marshal of Morehead, accompanied by a half
98 Blue Ridge Country
dozen men, went to the home of old Ben Martin, father
of John. Craig told Mrs. Martin that he had warrants
for the arrest of Cook Humphrey and Ben Rayburn. At
first she said the two were not there, that only her daugh
ters, Sue, Annie, little Rena, and a married daughter, Mrs.
Richmond Tussey, were in the house. It was a fact; her
husband and her two sons, Will and Dave, whose lives had
been threatened, had gone to Kansas.
The Tollivers, however, were not to be deceived. They
had seen Cook Humphrey, carrying his gun, enter the
Martin house the evening before. The house, a two-story
frame with the old part of logs stood at the foot of a hill
about thirty feet from the road. Tolliver s band, includ
ing Mark Keeton, Jeff Bowling, Tom Allen Day, John
and Boone Day, Mitch and Jim Oxley, and Bob Messer,
were well armed. They demanded that Humphrey and
Rayburn surrender, saying they had warrants for their ar
rest for the attempted assassination of Taylor Young. The
two men asked to see the warrants and when the docu
ments of arrest were not forthcoming they flatly refused
to surrender. Then Craig Tolliver stationed his crew in
the bushes all around the Martin house. Watching his
chance he finally slipped inside and up the narrow stair
way. Humphrey spied him, rushed forward and striking
his gun discharged it in Craig s face. Craig fell backward.
Wiping the blood from forehead and cheeks he hurried
out into the yard.
Sue Martin dashed past him headed toward town for
help. But no sooner did she reach the county seat than
she was arrested and put in jail. Craig and his crew were
still surrounding the Martin house, and finally one of
them called out that if Rayburn and Humphrey did not
surrender they would burn the place down. It was known
Land of Feuds and Stills 99
that Tom Allen Day was one of the best marksmen in the
county, so Mrs. Martin, in an effort to help Rayburn and
Humphrey escape, ran toward the barn where Day was
ambushed. He had his gun uplifted and leveled at the
fleeing men. Mrs. Martin struck the gun upward and the
shots went wild. But the rest of the Tolliver crew poured
lead toward the two men. Rayburn was slain but Hum
phrey escaped. Knowing he still held on to his Winchester
the Tollivers feared to go into the brush after him.
The body of Rayburn lay all night where it fell. Friends
feared to approach it. The next day, however, they piled
fence rails about the corpse to keep hogs from destroying
it.
At dusk that day the Tolliver crew set fire to the Martin
house and burned it to the ground. The women escaped,
seeking shelter under a tree. Mrs. Martin s married daugh
ter, Mrs. Tussey, was carried out with her young babe.
Another of the Martin girls went to Morehead to see Sue,
and she too was arrested and put in jail.
The militia was called out, arriving on the following
day. The Martin girls were promptly released. Sue had
revenge in her heart for the insult and humiliation of false
arrest.
Later while the Tollivers were barricaded in a hotel
down near the railroad tracks in Morehead a plump roast
turkey was sent in for their dinner. They wondered whose
generosity had prompted the act. But on sniffing the well-
roasted fowl they began to suspect a trick. Upon examina
tion it was found that the turkey contained enough arsenic
to kill a dozen men. Sue Martin was suspected but nothing
was done about it. There was not sufficient evidence to
warrant arrest.
No sooner had the militia been removed from More-
100 Blue Ridge Country
head than the Tollivers set upon the Gait House where
Cook Humphrey, Howard Logan, Mat Carey, and others
were staying. There wasn t a windowpane left in the place
when they finished. The doors were splintered to smither
eens. In the midst of the fusillade of bullets Cook Hum
phrey grabbed up a hymn book from the organ in the
musty parlor, held it over his heart, and thereby saved
his life. A bullet lodged in the thick leather cover of the
book.
Things quieted down for some months and Craig Tolli-
ver vowed he was through with the trouble. "I m a quiet,
peaceable man," he went about saying, "and the citizens
ought to encourage my good behavior by electing me
police judge." But when he set out canvassing for votes he
carried a Winchester. The other candidates forthwith
dropped out of the race, leaving Craig the only one on the
ticket.
When Boone Logan stepped up to the voting booth
Craig was close enough to hear what was said. The elec
tion officer told Boone who was running and the latter
expressed himself in no uncertain terms. He said he d
rather vote for the worst man in the county than for Craig
Tolliver.
Boone Logan was a well-educated, peaceable citizen and
practiced law in Morehead.
Not long after Craig Tolliver was elected police judge
he contrived to have two younger brothers of Boone Logan
arrested on a charge of kukluxing. Marshal Manning and
twelve men repaired to the Logan home two miles from
Morehead. The father, Dr. Logan, prevailed upon his
young sons to surrender and Tolliver agreed that the boys
would be taken to town and given a fair trial. But they
had walked scarcely ten feet from the house when the
Land of Feuds and Stills 101
Tolliver posse shot the boys to death and trampled the
bullet-torn faces into the earth and rode on to town.
The motive behind the murder of the innocent Logan
boys was that Craig Tolliver knew they would be chief
witnesses for their father, who was charged by Tolliver
with having conspired to kill Judge Cole. Craig decided
that the best way out was to end the lives of Dr. Logan s
sons. No sooner had this been accomplished than Tolliver
sent word to Boone Logan to get out of the county.
Boone got out of the county. He went to Frankfort to
seek aid and counsel of the governor. But Governor Knott
said that the state had done all it could for the relief of
the citizens of Rowan County. Logan then turned to
Hiram Pigman, who had had trouble with Craig Tolliver,
and together they solicited the support of Sheriff Hogg
in securing the aid of one hundred and fifty of the county s
best citizens in bringing the Tollivers to justice. As a
means to that end Boone Logan went to Cincinnati where
he purchased a supply of Winchester rifles.
Those who didn t have a Winchester shouldered mus
kets, shotguns, and other firearms. Warrants of arrest
against the Tollivers on charges of murder, arson, and
various other crimes and misdemeanors were issued and
the date set for the arrest of the men was June 22, 1887.
Early that morning before daybreak more than one hun
dred armed men in the posse were stationed in groups at
seven different points outside of Morehead.
Craig Tolliver was apprehensive so he walked out of his
saloon he operated two at the time and called his clan
together at the American Hotel. There they lay in wait
and presently one of the crew saw a man named Byron
going down the street. They knew Byron to be a member
of the posse. They fired on him and he took to his heels
102 Blue Ridge Country
with the Tollivers in pursuit. One of their number, Bud
Tolliver, fell with a bullet in his knee. He crept off in the
weeds for safety.
The Logan posse, in order to identify themselves and
avoid their own bullets, were fighting bareheaded. The
Tollivers seeing this threw away their hats which helped
a couple of their number to escape. "The two Mannings
never did stop running until they got entirely out of the
state," so the story went. So quickly did the posse increase
they seemed fairly to spring out of the ground.
The Tollivers now retreated to the Central Hotel but
they soon fled the place when the posse pelted the old
hostelry with bullets.
Jay Tolliver was killed a short distance away, on the
hill beyond Triplett Creek, and Craig was dropped by a
bullet in the leg when he was crossing the railroad. The
tracks separated the Cottage Hotel and the Central Hotel
both of which were in sight of the Gait House, also known
as the Carey House, where Floyd Tolliver had been killed
by John Martin during the preceding December.
As marksmen the posse surpassed the Tollivers in this
street battle for only one of their number was wounded
and that was Bud Madden. He was shot by "Kate" Tolli
ver, a boy scarcely fourteen years old. Young "Kate," or
Gal, as he was sometimes called, was as fearless as a moun
tain lion. Never once did he ran for shelter during the
shooting. And when his uncle Craig lay dying of seventeen
bullet wounds the boy went to him, removed his watch
and pocketbook, then crawled away under the Central
Hotel where he remained until darkness when he made
his way to the woods.
The battle was waged for more than two hours. The
posse was determined to clear the scene of Tollivers.
Land of Feuds and Stills 103
They found Bud unable to crawl out from his hiding
place in the weeds. He asked no mercy, nor was mercy
granted. A gun was placed close to Bud s head. His brains
were blown out. Another of the Tolliver clan, Hiram
Cooper, thought to conceal himself in a wardrobe in Allie
Young s room in the Central Hotel. (Allie was the son of
Taylor Young whose life had been attempted.) But
Cooper, like Bud, was shown no mercy. He was dragged
out into the middle of the floor to meet Bud s fate.
The bodies of the Tollivers were gathered up, Jay s
from the hillside beyond Triplett Creek, Bud s from the
weeds where he had crawled to hide, Craig s from where
it lay near the railroad tracks, and that of their confeder
ate, Hiram Cooper, from beside the wardrobe wherein
he had tried to hide. The bullet-riddled bodies were
washed and laid out in a row in the musty sitting room
of the old American House. This last office for the dead
was performed by members of the posse.
While the corpses still lay cold in the quiet sitting room,
a short distance away in the courthouse there was a spirited
gathering of stern and earnest men. Their leader, Boone
Logan, whose young brothers had been brutally slain by
the Tollivers, arose and addressed the crowd.
When the last word of his grave speech had been uttered
the men silently drew up a resolution which read in part
as follows:
"If anyone is arrested for this day s work we will re
assemble and punish to the death any man who offers the
molestation."
Coffins for the four bodies that lay in shrouds in the
old hotel were brought from Lexington. The remains of
the Tollivers, Craig, Jay, and Bud, were hauled to Elliott
County for burial, while that of Hiram Cooper was re-
104 Blue Ridge Country
moved by his friends to the family burying ground in the
outskirts of Rowan County.
The death of these four men brought the total number
slain in the Martin-Tolliver feud to twenty-one.
Tragedy stalked two of the crew who had been con
nected with the killing of John Martin while he sat hand
cuffed in the baggage coach: Jeff Bowling killed his father-
in-law in Ohio and was hanged for the crime; Alvin killed
the town marshal of Mt. Sterling, not many miles from
Morehead, and was sent to the penitentiary for twenty-one
years.
Although Craig Tolliver lived by the sword and died
by it, there was no record to be found that he ever actually
killed a man. Rather he was credited with plotting the
deeds, molding the bullets for others to fire.
The life of Allie Young, the son of the prosecuting at
torney, Taylor Young, whose life had been attempted, was
saved because on the day of the street battle he was in
Mt. Sterling in an adjoining county.
One old woman who witnessed the open battle that day
on Railroad Street became raving insane. And Liza, Jay
Tolliver s wife, fled in dismay across the mountain never
to return.
Marion, brother of Craig, had no hand whatever in the
trouble. He lived his days in peace within sight of the
county seat of Rowan tending his farm and looking after
his household. If his kinfolk had heeded him there never
would have been a Rowan County war which put a blot
upon the community that took years to erase.
Land of Feuds and Stills 105
FAMILY HONOR
Looking down on a clear day from a bald on Dug Down
Mountain you can see the valley far below. The bald is
sometimes called the sods where the trees can t grow be
cause of high winds. This particular spot is called Foley
Sods after the Foleys who have lived here in the Dug
Down Mountains for generations. Looking closer from the
high, green bald you can see far below in the edge of a
dilapidated orchard a lorn grave. Overrun with ivy and
thorns it is enclosed with a wire fence, sagging and rusty
and held together here and there with crooked sticks and
broken staves.
Ben Foley s grave it is, anyone whom you happen to
meet along the way will tell you, but your informant will
say no more. If you have the time and inclination to fol
low the footpath on around toward a cliff to the right you
may come upon old Jorde Foley sitting near on a log as
if keeping watch over the place. The old fellow will ap
praise you from head to foot and either he will be glum,
like the person you have passed on the way, or he will in
vite you to rest a while. Then presently he falls into easy
conversation and before you are aware you have learned
much about Ben and Jorde Foley too.
It wasn t that Jorde had any objection to what Ben, his
son, was doing, but it was the things that happened when
Ben brought home his bride from Cartersville that caused
Jorde to speak his mind. This day he went back to the
beginning of things.
"I ve been makin all my life right here in these Dug
Down Mountains alongside this clift," he said. "It s my
land, my crop. And I ve a right to do with my corn what
ever I m a mind to. And Cynthie, my wife, many s the time
106 Blue Ridge Country
she taken turns with me breakin* up the mash, packin
the wood to keep the fire under the still. We ve set by
waitin for the run off. And Ben, our boy, he learnt from
watchin us how to make good whiskey, from the time he
was a little codger. Sometimes Cynthie would keep an eye
out for the law. But we hated that part of it worser n pizen.
We were in our rights and had no call to be treated like
thieves in the night. Pa made whiskey right here in these
Dug Down Mountains same as his n before him, out of
corn he raised on his own place and in them days there
wasn t ever the spyin eyes of the law snoopin around."
Jorde rolled his walking staff between his rough hands
and looked away. "Sometimes I d change places with
Cynthie whilst she tended the fire. We made good
whiskey/ he said neither boastfully nor modestly. "We
sold it for an honest price. That s the way we learnt Ben
to do. But, hi crackies, what takes my hide and taller is
when a son o mine turns out yaller. I never raised my boy
for no chicanery." Old Jorde s voice raised in indignation.
However, when he spoke again there was a note of toler
ance even pity in his tone.
"Ben would never a done it only for that Jezebel he
married down to Cartersville and brought home here to
the mountains. Effie, like Delilah that made mock of her
man Samson, was the cause of it all. Ben just nat erly
couldn t make whiskey fast enough to give that woman all
her cravin s and now you see where it got my poor boy. A
man s a right," said the old fellow in deadly earnest, "to
marry a girl he s growed up with stead of tryin to get
above his raisin . See where it got my poor boy," he re
peated. The troubled eyes sought the neglected grave in
the scrubby orchard far below.
There was no marker, not even a rough stone from the
Land of Feuds and Stills 107
mountain side at head or foot like on the other Foley
graves in the Foley burying ground on the brow of the
MIL Only the sagging fence enclosed Ben s resting place.
"It was hard to do/ old Jorde said grimly, "but it had to
be so s no other Foley will follow Ben s course."
With that he slowly arose and led the way to a pile of
soot-covered stones.
"Now close here was where the thumpin* keg stood/
he began to indicate positions, "and yonder the still. *
There was nothing but charred remnants of staves and
rusty hoops left of the barrel through which the copper
worm had run, while the copper still itself was reduced
to a battered heap. The worm and the thumping keg and
all the essentials for making whiskey leaped into a living
scene, however, when Jorde Foley got to telling of the days
when he and Cynthie and young Ben, peaceable and con
tented, earned a meager living at the craft.
"Set your still right about here/ Jorde hovered over
the remnants of the stone furnace, "and you break your
mash once in so often. A man s got to know when it is
working right. The weather has a heap to do with it fer
menting. Sometimes it takes longer than other times. No,
you don t stir it with a stick but a long wooden fork. I ve
whittled many a one." He retrieved from the pile of stone
what was left of the stirring fork. "Have it long so you
can retch far all around the barrel," he said, measuring
the fork against his own height. With unconcealed pride
he explained the various steps of making corn whiskey
in his own primitive way. He told how the thumping keg
in which it was aged was first carefully charred inside to
add a tempting flavor, and how the barrel in which the
commeal and malt were placed was made of clean staves
of oak or chestnut, or whatever wood was at hand. The
108 Blue Ridge Country
wood was cut green and when the mash began to work
the liquid caused the staves to swell and thus make the
barrel leak-proof.
Never once in his explanation did Jorde Foley say
moonshine, or shine, or mountain dew.
"Whiskey, pure corn whiskey/* he repeated, "when it is
treated right won t harm no one. And when a body sees
the first singlin come treaklin out the worm, cooled by
the cold water that this worm is quiled in," he indicated
the location of the barrel, "somehow there s a heap of
satisfaction in it. Seeing that clear whiskey, clear as a
mountain stream come treaklin into the tin bucket or jug
that is settin there to ketch it, it makes a man plum proud
over his labors."
Jorde looked inward upon his thoughts. "Many a time
me and Cynthie would take a full bucket to a neighbor s
when there was a frolic, set it in the middle of the table
with a gourd dipper in it, and let everyone help hisself to
a drink. Why, there was no harm in whiskey in my young
day. And us people up here didn t know or need no other
medicine."
In the bat of an eye Jorde Foley explained how pure
corn whiskey had cured cases of croup, saved mothers in
childbirth, cured children of spasms and worms, and saved
the life of many a man bitten by a copperhead or suffering
from sunstroke. Once I saw Brock Pennington stob Bill
Tanned in the calf of the leg with a pitchfork. Bill he bled
like a stuck hog and we grabbed up a jug of whiskey and
poured it on his leg. Stopped the blood! No how," Jorde
was off on another defense, "land up here and in lots of
places in these mountains is not fitten to farm so we have
allus made whiskey of it after exceptin out enough for
our bread. Good, pure whiskey that never harmed no man
Land of Feuds and Stills 109
that treated it right, that s what we made. In Pa s day he
sold it for fifty cents a gallon. Us Foleys in my day sold it
for a dollar a gallon and let the other fellow pack it off
and sell it for what he could get. Why, I had knowin of
a man on Chester Creek in Fentress County over in Ten
nessee that sold it for three dollars a gallon. But that is a
plum outrage!" Jorde spat vehemently halfway to the cliff.
"After Pa died, me and Mose Keeton got to makin to
gether. We halved the corn and halved the work and
halved the cash money and never no words ever passed be
twixt us. By the time Mose died my boy Ben taken his
place."
Only once did a smile light the grim face. "One day
Cynthie and me was busy here and Ben s pet pig followed
him up here when he brought us a snack to eat. The pig
snooted around and found the place where we had
dumped the leavin s of the mash after we had took off
the brine. Well, sir, that pig just nat erly gorged itself and
directly it was tipsy as fiddlesticks. I never saw such antic
was out of a critter in my life. It reeled to and fro and
squealed and grunted and went round and round tryin
to ketch its own tail. Finally it rolled down the hill. Ben
packed it back up again and it reeled around, its feet
tangled and it rolled down again. Kept that up till it got
sober. Its eyes rolled back in its head, it sunk down in a
grassy spot over yonder and slept till dark. It follered at
Ben s heels meek as a lamb when we went down the hill
that night. That pig was too sick to eat or even sniff a
nubbin of corn for two whole days, just laid and groaned.
"Now, Ben/ says Cynthie to our boy, you see what comes
of gettin tipsy. And Ben Foley learnt a lesson off the pig
and never did take a dram too much."
Again Jorde s eyes sought the neglected grave far off.
110 Blue Ridge Country
He looped back to the story of his son. "Everything was
peaceable here, though we did miss Cynthie powerful after
she died. But me and Ben made on the best we could. We
had a living from our whiskey. Then come Effie! That
woman nat erly tore up the whole place. She kept gougin
Ben for more cash money." Jorde pointed a condemning
finger toward a ravine. "There s a half dozen washtubs
rustin away under there."
A part of a zinc tub protruded from the brush heap.
"One day," Jorde continued, "unbeknown to Ben s wife,
Effie, I snuck off up here away from that Jezebel though
she had talked no end about me being too old to climb
the mountain. Tou ll get a stroke, Jorde/ she d warn me.
You best sit here in the cool, or feed the chickens or the
hogs/ Effie was ever finding something for me to do if I
offered a word about comin up here to see how Ben was
getting on. That made me curious. So I snuck off from
the house and come up here one day." Jorde s eyes turned
toward the ground. "When I come up on Ben I couldn t
believe my own eyes. My boy had a fire goin not under
just one but a half dozen tubs! What s left of them are
over yonder." He jerked a thumb toward the brush cov
ered ravine. "My boy Ben was stirring around not with
the wood fork like he had been learnt, but with a shovel!"
Jorde lifted scandalized eyes. "A rusty shovel, at that! He
was talking in a big way to his helper a strange man to
me. I come to find out he was a friend of Effie s from Car-
tersville."
Jorde pondered a while. "Come to find out, to make a
long story short, Ben was cheatin them that bought his
whiskey, tellin them it was a year old when he knew in
reason he d just run it off maybe the night before. Ben
Foley was sellin pizen!" Old Jorde Foley s voice trembled.
Land of Feuds and Stills 111
"That s all it was that he was makin . Pizen that he forced
to ferment with stuff that Effie s friend, who used to work
in the coal mines, brought here. And Ben sellin that pizen
that burnt the stummick and the brains out of men that
drunk it. Hi gad!" old Foley spat vehemently * I never
raised my son to be no such thief! It was that Jezebel Effie
that led my boy to the sin of thievin . She wanted more
cash money than he could earn honest with makin* good
whiskey."
It was Ben s fear of prison, old Jorde explained bluntly,
that caused him to run from the law, and running he had
stumbled and thereby stopped a bullet.
"What the law didn t bust to pieces of them tubs and
shovels and such, I did," Jorde added with a note of satis
faction. For a moment he lapsed into silence, then added
gravely, "Ben just nat erly disgraced us Foleys." The father
hung his head in shame. "Why, Cynthie would turn over
in her grave if she knew of him thievin and runnin*
runnm* from the law! It s such as that Jezebel with her
carryin s on, temptin men to thievin* that s put an end to
makin makin good whiskey in these Dug Down Moun
tains here in Georgia. Put an end to sellin* good pure
whiskey for an honest price like me and mine used to
make."
3. Products of the Soil
TIMBER
individualism of the mountaineer has not made
1 of him a scientific inventor, but this marked trait of
character has developed his self-reliance and resourceful
ness. He may not know, or care to know, in figures the de
gree of the angle at which the mountain slopes. Probably
he has never heard of the clinometer by which geological
surveyors arrive at such information. Yet the untrained
mountain man seeing a stream gushing down a steep es
carpment knows how to divert it to his own best use.
Sometimes he set his tub mill, or the wheel, at the most
advantageous point to grind his corn into meal. If, how
ever, his house happened to be near no stream he had a
simpler method for grinding his corn, a way his forbears
learned from the Indian, or heard about through his
Scotch ancestors. He rounded two stones, about the size
of the average dishpan, with great patience. Bored a hole
in the center of the top one, placed the two in a hol
lowed log and patiently, laboriously poured corn, a few
grains at a time, into the opening. With the other hand
he turned the top stone by means of a limber branch at
tached to a rafter overhead, the other end of which was
thrust into a small hole near the rim of the top stone. In
this way he kept the top stone moving, slowly, steadily.
112
Products of the Soil 113
The Scotch called this simple handmill a quern. It was a
laborious way of grinding meal.
It has amazed men of the tL S. Geological Survey to
find that the corn patch of the mountaineer often slants
at an angle of fifty degrees so that it is impossible to plow.
The mountaineer cultivates such a patch entirely with a
hoe. When the mountain side, crop and all, slides down
to the base he bears the ill luck with patience and forti
tude and tries to find a remedy. He hauls rocks to brace
the earth and plants another crop. He had no time to sit
and bemoan his fate. Through such trials, and because
neighbors were so far removed, his self-reliance and re
sourcefulness were of necessity developed. The mountain
man learned early to face alone the hazards of life in the
forest; first of all was defense of his home against wild
beasts and the Indian. He knew the danger to life and
limb from fallen trees, treacherous quicksand, swollen
creeks, the peril of slipping mountain sides after heavy
rains. Of necessity he relied upon himself; he could not
wait for a neighbor to help pull the ox out of the ditch.
He learned early to make his own crude farm implements
at his own anvil. In short, he had to be jack-of-all-trades
blacksmith, tanner, barber, shoemaker, wagoner, and
woodsman.
Men of the Blue Ridge did not clear their land after
the manner of the German farmer in Pennsylvania, who
uprooted his trees. Instead, it was done by belting the
tree. He notched a six-inch band around the trunk, re
moved the bark which prevented the sap from going up
and thus killed the tree from lack of nourishment. A field
of such trees he called a deadening. The roots were left to
rot and enrich the soil but the hillsides were so steep that
the fertility from wood soil soon washed away and an-
114 Blue Ridge Country
other deadening had to be made before another crop
could be planted. Though crops were scant, the forest it
self was ample and sometimes brought him rich returns
if he managed right.
A timber cruiser would come into the community, pros
pecting for a lumber company, and examine the standing
timber. After he reported back to the company, a lawyer
was sent to sound out the landowners to see if they were
willing to sell their surface rights. When the legal matters
were attended to, the lumber company sometimes bought
as much as seventy thousand acres of forest. Woodsmen
were brought in to work along with the mountain men.
Portable sawmills were set up and busy hands sawyers,
choppers set to work leveling the giant trees.
The owners calculated it would take twenty-five years
to cull out all the large timber and by the time that job
was finished there would be a second growth ready to cut.
With this in view, hardwood and rich walnut were cut
and used with utter extravagance and disregard for their
great worth; full-sized logs of the finest grade were used
for building barns, planks of black walnut found their
way into porch floors, walnut posts were used freely for
fencing by the mountaineer himself.
So profuse was the supply up until a quarter century
ago that no thought was given to its possible disappearance
through wasteful methods of lumbering, frequent forest
fires, and the woodsman s utter carelessness and disregard
for the future.
A timber cruiser in Knott County, Kentucky, once came
upon an old woman chopping firewood beside the door
of her one-room cabin. Upon examination he found it to
be a fine species of walnut. After talking with her he
learned that she owned hundreds of acres of timber, much
Products of the Soil 115
of which was covered with walnut such as she was ruth
lessly burning in the fireplace. He spent days going over
the acreage and offered the old woman a fabulous price
for the larger timber, at the same time assuring her,
through written agreement, protection of all her rights.
But the old creature, who lived alone, dismissed the tim
ber cruiser with a wave of her bony hand. "Begone!" she
chirped, "I don t want to be scrouged by your crew comin*
in on my land choppin down trees and settin up them
racket-makin contrapshuns under my very nose. No how
such as that skeers off the birds in the forest." Though
the cruiser agreed that his company would even be willing
to keep a distance of three miles in all directions from
her little cabin, the old woman still refused, and when he
tried again in honeyed tones to persuade her she up with
the ax and chased him off the place.
The mountain man, however, often seized the oppor
tunity to dispose of his timber and set to work with a vim
to get it to the nearest market, though such was a mighty
task. Having cut down the larger trees, he rolled the logs
down the mountain side toward the watercourse. Usually
the creeks were much too shallow to carry rafts of logs so
he constructed a splash dam at a suitable point between
the high banks of the stream. A splash dam consisted of
two square cribs of logs filled with great stones. Against
these two crude piers he built a dam in the middle of
which he placed an enormous gate. He remembered how
he had made rabbit traps when he was a boy. So now, on
a bigger scale, he made a figure-four trap-trigger for his
splash dam. On one side, the gate which he built in the
middle, pushed against two projecting logs in the dam.
A long slender pole like a telegraph pole held the gate in
place. This is the trigger pole. Thus dammed, the water
116 Blue Ridge Country
soon formed a deep lake into which strong-armed men
threw the logs.
Gate and trigger are in readiness. The mountaineer has
only to wait for a tide, which is often not long in coming.
Even overnight, even in a few short hours, a stream has
been known to swell from sudden rains or snow, bringing
the water with a rush down steep mountain sides and car
rying with it the logs that were left strewn on the slopes
or near the bank. Men work with feverish haste to roll
the logs into the stream. The whole is swept into the dam,
the trigger is released at the right moment and the rush
of water with its freight of logs sweeps through the open
gate with a mighty roar, carrying its cargo for miles on
down to the river.
Zealous workers have been known to splash out in this
fashion as many as thirteen thousand logs in one season.
Timber so floated down the Big Sandy River made at
its mouth the largest round timber market in the world
and brought untold fortunes to capitalists who ruthlessly
cut down the virgin forests along its banks.
Here at the waterfront taverns a motley crowd of log
gers and raftsmen, woodsmen and timbermen, were wont
to gather for nights of revelry. The old taverns rang with
as rollicking songs as ever enlivened a western bar in gold-
rush days. Here too woodsman and logger rubbed shoul
ders betimes with Devil Anse Hatfield and Randall Mc
Coy, for it was to the mouth of Big Sandy, the village of
Catlettsburg, the county seat of Boyd, that the clansmen
repaired to reinforce their ammunition for carrying on
their bloody feud.
And here, in the spring of the year, the calliope could
be heard far down the Ohio as the showboat steamed into
view. Shouts of glee went up from the throats of young-
Products of the Soil 117
sters along the way as they rushed excitedly for the river-
bank to watch the approach of the flag-decked boat. And
when the Cotton Blossom had docked and deckhands had
made her fast to her moorings with rope and chain, a
gayly uniformed band led by a drum major in high-
plumed hat and gold-braided coat with sounding horns
and quickened drumbeat walked the gangplank, leaped
nimbly to shore, and paraded the narrow winding village
street.
Old and young wept over the death of Uncle Tom and
hissed viciously the -slave-whipping Legree. Woodsman or
logger, who had imbibed too freely at the waterfront
taverns, sometimes arose and cursed angrily the black-
mustachioed villain. Whereupon the town marshal patted
the disturber on the shoulder (the officer always had passes
to the showboat for himself and family and friends),
wheedled the giant mountaineer into silence, and left him
dozing in his seat.
When the curtain fell on the last act, woodsmen and
raftsmen and their newfound friends in the village re
turned to the riverfront tavern to make a night of it.
By sunup the crew would be on its way back up to the
head of Big Sandy to make ready for another timber run.
WOMAN S WORK
The woman of the mountains has always been as re
sourceful in her way as the man. She made the sweetening
for the family s use from a sugar tree and as often used
sorghum from cane for the same purposes, even pouring
the thick molasses into coffee if they were fortunate
enough to have coffee. She made her own dyes from barks
and herbs. And though she may have had a dozen children
118 Blue Ridge Country
of her own she was ready and eager to help a neighbor in
time of sickness. Doctors were scarce, so she of necessity
turned midwife to help another through childbirth. She
shared the tasks of her husband in the field and home. She
was as busy at butchering time as the menfolk. Once the
hog was killed and cleaned, she helped chop the meat
into sausage and helped to case it. She boiled the blood
for pudding and looked to the seasoning, with sage and
pepper, of the head cheese and liverwurst. Hers was the
task of rendering the lard in the great iron kettle near
the dooryard. And once the meat was cut into slabs she
helped salt it down in the meat log. But only the man
felt capable of properly preparing and smoking the ham
for the family s use. She frugally set aside the cracklins,
after rendering the lard, for use in soap-making at the
hopper.
At sorghum-making time mother and daughter worked
as busily as father and son. The men cut the cane and fed
it to the mill, while the womenfolk took turns tending
the pans in which the syrup boiled, skimming off the
greenish foam and scum that gathered on the top. They
urged the young boys, who hung around on such occasions,
to bring on more wood to keep the fire going under the
pans. The owner of the portable sorghum mill sometimes
took his pay for its use in sorghum, if there was no money
to be had. He was paid too for the use of his team in
hauling the mill to the cane patch of the neighbor who
had engaged it, and he himself sometimes tarried to help
set it up. A small boy was sometimes pressed into service
to urge the patient mule on its monotonous course around
and around pulling the beam that turned the mill.
Sorghum-making had its lighter side. The young folks
especially found fun in seeing a guileless fellow step into
Products of the Soil 119
the skimming hole concealed by cane stalks. The sport was
complete when the bewildered fellow struggled to free
himself from the sticky mess. But the woman was quick
to help him out of his plight by providing a change of
raiment and soap and water and clean towels, "yonder in
the kitchen-house." She knew what to expect at sorghum-
making time.
Each season of the year brought its communal activity:
corn shucking in the fall, that was ever followed by a
frolic. Bean stringing when the womenfolk pitched in to
help each other out stringing beans with a long darning
needle on long strands of thread. These were hung up to
dry and supplied a tasty dish on cold winter days. There
was also apple-butter-making in the fall when long hours
were spent in peeling and preparing choicest apples which
were boiled in the great copper kettle and richly seasoned
with sugar and spice. Apple-butter-making was an all-day
job in the boiling alone but the rich and tasty product
is considered well worth the effort and any mountain
woman who cannot display shelves laden with jars of
apple-butter would be considered a laggard indeed.
But the mountain woman s greatest pride and joy was
handiwork quiltmaking, crocheting. Perhaps it is because
these crafts have always gone hand-in-hand with court
ship and marriage.
At the first call of the robin in the spring, Aunt Emmie
on Honey Camp Run, in clean starched apron and calico
frock, dragged her rocker to the front stoop of her little
house and there she sat for hours rocking contentedly
while her nimble fingers moved swiftly with crochet
needle and thread. "Aunt Emmie 5 s crocheting lace for
Lulie Bell s wedding garments." Folks knew the signs.
Hadn t Lulie Bell ridden muleback from Old Nell Knob
120 Blue Ridge Country
just as soon as winter broke to take the day with the old
woman. "Make mine prettier than Bessie s and Flossie s/
she had said. Or, "I want the seashell pattern for my pil
lowcases." Or, "I want you to crochet me a pretty chair
back." "1 want a lamberkin all scalloped deep" another
bride-to-be measured a half arm s length. "I want my edg
ing for the gown and petticoat to match." Passersby over
heard the talk of the young folk. "Wouldn t you favor the
fan pattern?" Aunt Emmie offered a suggestion now and
then while the shiny needle darted in and out of scallop
and loop. Sometimes she dropped a word of advice to
the young, how to live a long and happy married life, how
and when to plant, what to take for this ailment and that.
There were things that brought bad luck, she warned,
and some that brought good.
"If a bride plants cucumber seed the first day of May
when the dew is still on the ground, the vines will grow
hardy and bear lots of cucumbers and she will bring forth
many babes, too," her words fell on willing ears of the
young bride-to-be. "If you sleep under a new quilt that no
one has ever slept under, what you dream that night will
come true." Many a young miss declared she had experi
enced the proof of the saying. There was something else.
"Mind, don t ever sew a ripped seam or patch a garment
that s on your back. There will be lies told on you sure
as you do." That could be proved in most any community
in the Blue Ridge.
Yards upon yards of lace Aunt Emmie crocheted, the
Clover Leaf pattern, the Sea Shell, Acorn, the Rose, and
if a bride-to-be had no silver, the lacemaker was content
to take in exchange a pat of butter, eggs, or well-cured
ham. Her delight was in the work itself.
The thrifty woman of the mountains takes great pride
Products of the Soil 121
in her quilts; not only does she strive to excel her neigh
bor in the variety of patterns but in the number as well.
On a bright summer day she brings them out of cupboard
and presses, and hangs them on the picket fence to sun.
She is pleased when a passerby stops to admire, and espe
cially so if it be a young miss. The older woman recog
nizes the motive behind the question, "What is this pat
tern?" "Is this easy to piece?" The older woman knows
the young iniss has marrying in her head and goes to great
lengths to explain. "Now this is Compass and Nine Patch
and it s easiest of any to put together. This is Grand
mother s Flower Garden it s a lot of little bitsy pieces,
you see, and a heap of different colors and it s most power
ful tejous to put together. This is Double Wedding Ring,
this Irish Chain" she names one after another "this is
Neck Tie, and this in the fair blue and white is Dove in
the Window."
The quiltmaker is even more pleased when the young
miss comes to take the day and she has the proud privilege
of starting John s or Tom s future wife on her very first
quilt. It is an occasion of merriment when the quilt is
finally finished and taken out of the frames after many
a pleasant quilting bee. Then, at the urging of one of
the older women, two girls shake a cat on the new quilt.
The one toward whom the cat jumps will be married
first, they believe. Some brides believe too that by going
to the oldest woman in the community to set up the quilt
for their marriage bed they will be insured long life and
joy. There are lovelorn maidens so eager to peer into the
future they will even help a neighbor on wash day. Two
girls will wring a dripping quilt by twisting it in rope
fashion. The one toward whom the end curls up will be
first to rock the cradle.
4. Tradition
PHILOMEL WHIFFET S SINGING SCHOOL
PHILOMEL WHIFFET was dim of eye and sparse of
beard. A little white fringe framed his wrinkled face
and numbered indeed were the hairs of his foretop. Trudg
ing up the snow-covered mountain, he caught sight of the
glowing stove through the window of Bethel church house
whither he was bound this winter night to conduct sing
ing school. He chuckled to himself, drawing the knitted
muffler closer about his thin throat and making fast the
earflaps of his coonskin cap. "Yes, they re getting the place
het up before the womenfolk come. Mathias or Jonathan,
one or the other." The singing master had come to know
the signs by the behavior of the old heating stove who
rivaled, who courted, who might be on the outs. It s Jona
than that s making the fire tonight. I caught the shadow
of him against the wall when he threw in the stove wood.
Jonathan s all of a head taller than Mathias. Trying to get
in favor with Drusilla Osborn. It s a plum shame the way
that girl taynts him and Mathias. At meeting first with
one, then the other. She s got the two young fellows as
mad as hornets at each other nigh half the time. No tell
ing, Dru s liable to shun them both when it comes to
choosing a mate. Women are strange creatures." The sing
ing master talked to himself as he plodded on.
122
Tradition 123
Many the year Philomel Whiffet traveled that selfsame
road with the selfsame aim, for the church house was the
only place on Pigeon Creek where folks could gather. The
seat of learning too it was there in the Tennessee moun
tains, so that old Whiffet, having journeyed hither and yon
to take up a subscription for singing school, must need get
the consent of school trustees and elders in order to hold
forth in Bethel church house. Honor-bound too, was he,
to divide his fee of a dollar per scholar with his bene
factors.
"We re giving you the chance, brother Whiffet, to earn
a living," one of the elders murmured when the singing
master that year shared with them his meager earnings.
But when Philomel ventured to suggest it might liven the
gathering somewhat if he brought along his dulcimer and
strummed the tune while scholars sang, both elders and
trustees stood aghast. Couldn t believe their ears. "Brother
Whiffet!" gasped one of the elders, "so long as we re in
our right mind no music box of any nature shall be
brought into Bethel church house. We don t intend to
contrary the good Lord in any such way."
That settled it.
The memory of that session brought a smile to the old
man s face. "Elders and women have strange ways," he told
himself as he walked on through the snow, eyes fixed on
the beacon light of the old heating stove in the church
house.
"Now I used to think that Mathias had got the best of
Jonathan," his thoughts returned to the present, "but
there s no knowing if Brasilia is aiming to set down her
name Mistress Oneby or Mistress Witchcott. Women are
powerful tetcheous. Keep a man uncertain and troubled
in his mind with their everlasting whims."
124 Blue Ridge Country
No one knew that any better than did Philomel Whiffet.
It made him patient with the young fellows in their trials,
for he had had a mighty hard row to hoe in his own court
ing days. Hadn t Ambrose Creech and Herb Masters ag
gravated him within an inch of his life before he finally
persuaded Clarissa that neither of the two was worth his
salt, that only he, Philomel Whiffet, the singing master,
could bring her happiness in wedded life. That had been
long years ago.
Philomel had been a widower for ten years past and
never once had he cast eyes on another woman; that is to
say, with the idea of marriage. "There s no need for a man
to put his mind on such as that without he can better him
self, and I never calculate to see Clarissa s equal, let alone
her betters. Nohow, singing school is good a-plenty to keep
a body company." That was Philomel Whiffet s notion
and he stuck to it. It was as though she, Clarissa, still bus
tled about the Whiffet cabin, for Philomel, though he
lived alone, kept the place as she had spic and span just
as Clarissa had left it. There on the shelf were the cedar
piggins, scoured clean with white sand from the creek, one
for spice, one for rendering, one for sweeting. And there
on the wall hung the salt gourd. "It s convenient to the
woman for cooking," he had said when first they started
housekeeping. How happy he had been in those days, look
ing after Clarissa and the little Whiffets as they came
along. Not until they were all grown and married off and
gone, and he and Clarissa were alone once more, did he
really come to realize how very happy their household had
been. He liked to look back on those times. "It s singing-
school night, Pa" Clarissa had taken to calling him Pa;
got it from the children. "You best strike the tuning fork
and sing a tune or two before you start. Gets your throat
Tradition 125
limbered up and going smooth." Philomel had come to
wait for her urging. Then he would fumble in his waist
coat pocket for the tuning fork and tapping it to chair rim
or bootheel, he d hold it to his ear, pitch the tune, and
sing a verse or two of this ballad and of that. Then when
he started forth on a winter s night, "Mind your wrist-
ban s!" his wife would say, "and your spectacles! Don t
forget your spectacles! Your sight s not sharp as it once
was. And your tuning fork, Pa. Don t forget to put it in
your pocket." It pleased the old singing master in those
days to have Clarissa feel that he was dependent upon her.
And now that she was gone, for ten long years, those fa
miliar words running through old Philomel Whiffet s
thoughts were all he had left to remind him of his needs
when he started out to singing school.
Slowly he plodded on through the snow, his eyes raised
now and again to the light of the heating stove in the
church house.
Arrived at the door he stomped the snow from his well-
greased boots and went in. Untying the flaps of the coon-
skin cap he moved across the floor. "Good evening, boys,"
he greeted cheerily, unwinding now the muffler from his
throat.
"Good evening, sir!" the early birds, Jonathan and
Ephraim Scaggs, answered together. It wasn t Mathias
Oneby, after all, whose shadow he had seen against the
wall. At once the singing master knew why Ephraim Scaggs
was there. His sister, Tizzie Scaggs, was head-over-heels in
love with Jonathan Witchcott. She was trying every scheme
to get him away from Drusilla Osborn. Yes, Tizzie had
sent her brother Ephraim along with Jonathan to make
the fire so he could drop in a few words about her; how
apt she, Tizzie, was at many tasks, what a fine wife she d
126 Blue Ridge Country
make for some worthy fellow. Philomel Whiffet knew the
way of young folks. And Brasilia knew the ways of Tizzie.
She was really wary of her and watchful, though Dru
would never own it to Jonathan Witchcott.
Even though the snow was nearly knee-deep it didn t
keep folks from singing school. Already they were crowd
ing in. So by the time old Whiffet was ready to begin every
bench was filled. Young men and old in homespun and
high boots, mothers and young girls in shawls and fasci
nators, talking and laughing at a lively clip as they took
their places: sopranos in the front benches opposite the
bass singers; behind them, altos and tenors.
"I m sorry to see that some of our high singers are not
here this evening." The old singing master from his place
behind the stand surveyed the gathering, squinting uncer
tainly by the light of the oil lamp. High on the wall it
hung without chimney, its battered tin reflector dimmed
by soot of many nights* accumulation. He picked up the
notebook from the little stand which served as pulpit for
the preachers on Sundays, and casually remarked, "We
kinda look to the high singers to help us through, to pitch
the tune and carry it. Too bad" he squinted again toward
the gathering -"that Brasilia Osborn is not here. Bru is
a extra fine singer. A fine note-singer is Bru. Takes after
the Osborns. Any of you heard if Osborns folks have got
sickness?"
A titter passed over the singing school and just then
Tizzie Scaggs, leering at Bra, piped out, "Why, yonder s
Bru Osborn in the back seat!"
The tittering raised to a snicker and Philomel Whiffet,
too flabbergasted to call out Brasilia s name and send her
to her own seat with the sopranos where she belonged,
turned quickly his back to the school and fumbled in his
Tradition 127
pocket. He brought forth a piece of charred wood, for
chalk was a rarity on Pigeon Creek, and began to set down
on the rough log wall a measure of music. In shaped notes,
for round notes had not yet made their way into Philomel
Whiffet s singing school. Painstakingly he set down the
symbols, some like little triangles, others square, until he
had completed a staff. Nor did he face the school again
until all the tittering had subsided. Then with the same
charred stick he drew a mark on the floor and called for
sopranos, alto, bass, and tenor to toe the mark.
Drusilla Osborn was first, then Lettie Burley, an alto,
came next. Tom Jameson, the tenor, and Felix Rideout,
who couldn t be beat singing bass, stood in a row careful-
as-you-please to see that they kept a straight line, toes to
the mark, shoulders back, chests expanded. They sang the
scale through twice forward and backward, bowed to the
singing master, then went back to their seats. It was a
never-changing form to which Philomel Whiffet clung as
an example for the whole school to follow should they be
called to toe the mark. A fine way to show all how a singer
should rightly stand and rightly sing.
"Now, scholars," Whiffet brushed the black from his
fingers, having replaced the charred stick in his pocket,
"lend attention!" Taking the tuning fork from his waist
coat pocket, he looked thoughtfully at the school. "Being
as this singing school is drawing to a close, seems to me
we should review all we can this evening." He paused.
"Now all that feel the urge can take occasion to clear their
throats before we start in."
Not one spurned the invitation, and when the raucous
noise subsided Philomel Whiffet tapped the tuning fork
briskly on the edge of the stand, put it to his ear, and lis
tened as he gazed thoughtfully downward.
128 Blue Ridge Country
"Do! Me! Sol! Do!" he sang in staccato notes, nodding
the sparse gray foretop jerkily with each note as bass, alto,
tenor, soprano took up their pitch. Thereupon he seized
the pointer, a long switch kept conveniently near in the
corner, and indicated the first note of the staff.
Scarcely had the pointer tapped a full measure before
the school realized they were singing by note an old fa
miliar tune and with that they burst forth with the words:
Oh! have you heard Geography sung?
For if you ve not it s on my tongue;
First the capitals one by one,
United States, Washington.
They changed the meter only slightly as they boomed
forth:
Augusta, Maine, on the Kennebec River,
Concord, New Hampshire, on the Merrimac.
Of course they knew it was the Geography Song from
their McGuffey Reader which the singing master had set
to tune. To make sure they had not forgotten the Mc
Guffey piece he halted the singing and directed that they
speak over the piece together, which they did with a verve:
Oh! have you heard Geography sung?
For if you ve not, it s on my tongue;
About the earth in air that s hung.
All covered with green, little islands.
Oceans, gulfs, and bays, and seas;
Channels and straits, sounds, if you please;
Great archipelagoes, too, and all these
Are covered with green, little islands.
Tradition 129
Philomel Whiffet sometimes had his school do unex
pected things that way. And now once again they went on
with the geography singing lesson, putting in the names
of places and rivers to the tune.
Far and wide traveled Philomel Whiffet s singing school,
wafted by note from freedom s shore to African wilds.
They knew it all by heart. On and on they sang, and Dru-
silla Osborn s voice led all the rest:
Bolivia capital Sue-re
Largest city in South America
Mexico is Mexico
Government Republican
Around the world and back again, nor did they stop
until they again went through all the States, finishing with
a lusty:
New Hampshire s capital is for a fact
Concord on the Merrimac.
Silence came at last.
Taking from the stand the songbook, Philomel placed
a hand behind him and announced with quiet decorum,
"Those who have brought their notebooks will please
open them up to page" he faltered, fumbling the leaves
of his book. "Open to page" still groping was Philomel
Whiffet and squinting at the faded pages, "Those who
have not brought their notebooks can look on with some
one else." Trying to act unconcerned was the singing
master. "Turn to oneof our old favorites/ poor old
Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book.
"My eyes are dim" he mumbled in confusion "I can
not see." Vainly he searched his vest pockets, the pockets
130 Blue Ridge Country
of his coat. "I ve left my specs at home/* he blurted in
desperation.
With that the tantalizing Brasilia Osborn, from her
bench at the back of the room, nudged the girl beside her
and, pointing to the staff of music left on the wall where
Philomel had placed it, Dru began to hum. "You ve
pitched it too shaller," whispered the other girl, and
quickly Dru hummed a lower register until her com
panion caught the pitch; then the two sang loud and
shrill: ,.. ..
My eyes are dim., I cannot see,
My specs I left at home.
And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had hap
pened, sopranos, altos, and bass had taken up the tune.
Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on the very front
bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the
singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his
booming bass with all his might and main. Hadn t Dru-
silla pitched the tune? What else was the doting Jonathan
to do? The two had been courting full six months, just to
spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias,
the patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of
the very last bench straight across from the adored Dru-
silla, sitting where anyone could see that Dru was playing
a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of his rival,
joined in with his high tenor:
My eyes are dim, 1 cannot see,
My specs I left at home.
Louder and stronger roared Jonathan s bass. And Ma
thias, not to be excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still,
sweeping the sopranos along with him.
Tradition 131
Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation.
Poor old Philomel Whiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I
did not mean for you to sing!" he cried, and again Dru-
silla took up his words:
/ did not mean for you to sing
and louder swelled the chorus. All the while the singing
master stood trembling, shaking his white head hope
lessly. "I did not mean for you to sing," he pleaded, "I
only meant my eyes were dim!"
His words merely spurred them on. On surged the
voices, bass, soprano, alto, tenor, in loud and mighty
" / did not mean for you to sing,
I only meant my eyes were dim.
The singing master fumbled his woolly wristbands,
thrust his hands deep into pockets of coat and breeches,
and peered searchingly about the little stand where, it was
plain to see, was nothing but the songbook which he had
dropped in his confusion. At last his trembling hand
sought the sparse foretop. There, bless you, rested the lost
spectacles. He yanked them to the bridge of his nose, and
then, just as though he didn t know all the time it was
Drusilla Osborn behind the prank, he turned his attention
toward that pretty young miss.
"Drusilla" you d never suspect what he was up to "we
all favor your voice in the ditty of My Son John. And you,
Jonathan Witchcott, I don t know of any other fellow that
can better sing the part of the courting man than you
yourself. And I m satisfied that no fairer maid was ever
wooed than Dm yonder. So lead off, lest the other fellow
get the best of you."
132 Blue Ridge Country
Almost before Jonathan was aware of it he was singing,
with his eyes turned yearningly upon Dru:
My man John, what can the matter be,,
That I should love the lady fair and she should not love
me?
She will not be my bride,, my joy nor my dear,
And neither will she walk with me anywhere.
Then, lest a moment be lost, the singing master himself
egged on the swain by singing the part of the man John:
Court her., dearest Master, you court her without fear,
And you will win the lady in the space of half a year;
And she will be your bride, your joy and your dear,
And she will take a walk with you anywhere.
Encouraged by the smiling school, Jonathan Witchcott
took up the song, turning yearningly to Dru who now
smiled coyly, head to one side, while he entreated:
Oh, Madam, I will give to you a little greyhound,
And every hair upon its back shall cost a thousand pound,
If you will be my bride, my joy and my dear,
And you will take a walk with me anywhere.
Scarcely had the last note left his lips when Brasilia,
now that all eyes were turned upon her, sang coquettishly:
Oh, Sir, I won t accept of you a little greyhound,
Though every hair upon its back did cost a thousand
pound,
1 will not be your bride, your joy nor your dear,
And neither will I walk with you anywhere.
With added fervor Jonathan offered more:
Tradition 133
Oh, Madam, I will give you a fine ivory comb,
To fasten up your silver locks when I am not at home.
That too Dni spurned, but all the same she was watch
ing nervously indeed Dru was watching anxiously Tiz-
zie Scaggs, lest she take up Jonathan s offer, which is an
other girl s right in the play-game song.
Quickly Jonathan Witchcott, knowing all this, sang
pleadingly:
Oh y Madam, I will give to you the keys of my heart,
To lock it up forever that we never more may part,
If you will be my bride, my joy and my dear.
Whereupon Brasilia, her eyes sparkling, her rosy lips
parted temptingly, sang:
Oh, Sir, I will accept of you the keys of your heart;
I ll lock it up forever and we never more will part,
And I will be your bride, your joy and your dear,
And I will take a walk with you anywhere.
When her last note ended Dru turned demurely toward
Jonathan, whereupon that happy swain leaped to his feet
and, extending a hand toward the singing master, sang:
My man, Philomel Whiffet, here s fifty pounds, for thee,
I d never have won this lady fair if it hadn t been for thee.
With that the whole singing school cheered and laughed.
Brasilia Osborn was so excited she almost twisted her
kerchief into shreds, for she and all the rest knew that by
consenting to sing the play-game song through she and
Jonathan had thereby plighted their troth. Either could
have dropped out on the very second verse if they had
been so inclined. But there, they had sung it through to
the end. If she hadn t Tizzie Scaggs would have leaped at
134 Blue Ridge Country
the chance. So now, the singing master arose and was first
to wish them well.
"A life of joy to the Witchcotts!" He bowed profoundly.
Even Mathias Oneby wished his rival happiness. The
girls tittered. Older folks nodded approval.
Then away they all went into the starlit night, trooping
homeward through the snow, Jonathan and Drusilla lead
ing the way.
Philomel Whiffet lingered a moment in the doorway of
Bethel church house chuckling to himself, "Dru s got her
just deserts. She had no right to taynt the two young fel
lows. I m pleased I caught her in the snare and made her
choose betwixt them." He wrapped the muffler about his
throat and, drawing on his mittens, the singing master
stepped out into the snow, the coonskin cap drawn lower
over his bespectacled eyes. Tm proud I caught Dru for
Jonathan/* he repeated. "She s too peert nowhow for that
shy Mathias Oneby. Women are strange critters when it
comes to courting. And her prankin like she did over me
misplacing my specs/ 1
He went steadily on his way, mittened hands thrust deep
into coat pockets, spectacles firmly on the bridge of his
nose. "She had no call to make mock of me and my specs
like she did/* Philomel mumbled to himself as he trudged
along.
As for the courting play-game song and the way it
turned out for Dru and Jonathan, that story too traveled
far and wide, so that Philomel Whiffet never lacked for a
singing school as long as he lived. That is the reason, old
folks will tell you, you ll come upon so many good singers
to this day along Pigeon Creek.
Tradition 135
RIDDLES AND FORTUNES
Telling riddles is no lost art in the Blue Ridge Country
and their text and answers are much the same whether
you turn to the Carolinas, Tennessee, or Virginia. There
is little difference among those who tell them. It is usually
the older women who cling to the tradition which goes
hand-in-hand with trying fortunes.
Aunt Lindie Reffitt in Laurel Cove would rather have
a bevy of young folks around her anytime than to sit with
women of her own age. "It s more satisfaction to let a
body s knowing fall on fresh ears." That was her talk.
Aunt Lindie knew no end of riddles and ways to try
fortunes. And as soon as girl or boy either turned their
thoughts to love they took occasion to drop in at Aunt
Lindie s.
What would be the color of their true love s eyes, the
hair? Or, "Tell me, Aunt Lindie" a lovelorn one begged
"will I have a mate at all or die unwed?" And the old
woman, sipping a cup of sassafras tea made tasty with spice-
wood sticks, had an answer ready:
"On the first day of May, just as soon as the sun comes
up, go to an old well that s not been used for many a
year. With a piece of looking glass cast a shadow into the
well. The face that appears reflected there will be that of
your true love. The one you are to wed/*
One of the Spivey girls had tried her fortune so. And
on one could make her believe other than that the hand
some black-mustached man from Coll ins Gap was the one
whom she had seen reflected in the well. They married.
But poor Minnie Tinsley. That same May she tried her
fortune at the well. But never a face appeared. Instead
136 Blue Ridge Country
there seemed to float to the surface of the water a piece
of wood in the shape of a coffin. Minnie died before the
summer was over. For a while others were afraid to go
near the well. But, as Aunt Lindie reminded, "There are
other ways. In the springtime the first dove you hear coo
ing to its mate, sit down, slip off your shoe, and there you
will find in the heel a hair. It will be the color of your
husband s locks."
There were other ways too, even for the very, very
young. To try this fortune it had to be a very mild winter
when flowers came early, for this was a fortune for St.
Valentine s Day. "The lad sets out early on his quest,"
Aunt Lindie explained, "He knows to look in a place
where there is rabbit bread on the ground where the
frost spews up and swells the ground. Close by there will
be a clump of stones, and if he looks carefully there he
will find snuggled under the stones a little Jack-in-the-
pulpit He plucks the flower and leaves it at the door of
his sweetheart. Though all the time she has listened inside
for his coming, she pretends not to have heard until he
scampers away and hides but not too far away lest he fail
to hear her singing softly as she gathers up his token of
love:
A little wee man in the wood he stood,
His cap was so green and also his hood.
By my step rock he left me a love token sweet,
From my own dear true love, far, far down the creek.
Some call his name Valentine, St. Valentine good,
This little wee man in the wood where he stood.
When Aunt Lindie finished singing the ballad she never
failed to add, "That is the best way I know to try a body s
Tradition 137
fortune. My own Christopher Reffitt was scarce six when
he left such a love token on my step rock and I a little
tyke of five."
Many a night they told riddles at Aunt Lindie s until
she herself could not think of another one. Some of the
young folks came from Rough Creek away off on Little
River and some from Bullhead Mountain and the Sinner
girls from Collins Gap. If several of the girls took a notion
to stay all night, Aunt Lindie Reffitt made a pallet on the
floor of extra quilts and many a time she brought out the
ironing board, placed it between two chairs for a bed for
the youngsters, Josie Binner, her hair so curly you couldn t
tell which end was growing in her head, always wanted to
outdo everyone else. Some said Josie was briggaty because
she had been off to settlements like Lufty and Monaville.
No sooner had they gathered around the fireplace and
Aunt Lindie had pointed out the first one to tell a riddle,
than Josie popped right up to give the answer. It didn t
take Aunt Lindie a second to put her in her place. "Josie,
the way we always told riddles in my day was not for one
to blab out the answer, but to let the one who gives it out
to a certain one, wait until that one answers, or tries to.
Your turn will come. Be patient."
Josie Binner slumped back in her chair.
"Now tell your riddle over again, Nellie." Aunt Lindie
pointed to the Morley girl who piped in a thin voice:
As I went over heaple steeple
There I met a heap a people;
Some was nick and some was nack,
Some was speckled on the back.
"Pooh!" scoffed Tobe Blanton to whom Nellie had
turned, "that s easy as falling off a log. A man went over
138 Blue Ridge Country
a bridge and saw a hornet s nest. Some were speckled and
they flew out and stung him."
"Being as Tobe guessed right/ 5 Aunt Lindie was careful
that the game was carried on properly, "he s a right to give
out the next riddle."
Tobe was ready.
A man without eyes saw plums on a tree.
He neither took plums nor left plums.
Pray tell me how that could be?
The cross-eyed lad to whom Tobe had turned shook his
head. "Well, then, Josie Binner, I can see you re itchin to
speak out. What s the answer?"
Josie minded her words carefully. "A one-eyed man saw
plums. He ate one and left one."
It was the right answer so Josie had her turn at giving
out the next riddle:
Betty behind and Betty before.
Betty all around and Betty no more.
No one could guess the answer. Some declared it didn t
make a bit of sense and Josie, pleased as could be, chal
lenged, "Give up?"
"Give up!" they all chorused.
"Well," Josie felt ever so important, "a man who was
about to be hanged had a dog named Betty. It scampered
all around him as he walked to the gallows and then
dashed off and no one saw where it went. The hangman
told him if he could make up a riddle that no one could
riddle they would set him free. That was the riddle!"
"Ah, shucks! Is that all?" Ben Harvey scoffed and mum
bled under his breath, "I ll bet Josie made that up her
self."
Tradition 139
"It s your turn." Aunt Lindle had sharp ears and young
folks had to be mannerly In her house. If not she had her
own way of teaching them a lesson. She took Ben un
awares. He had to think quickly and blurted out the first
riddle that came to his mind:
Black upon black, and brown upon brown,
Four legs up and six legs down.
Even half-witted Tom Cartmel to whom Ben happened
to be looking gave back the answer:
"A darky riding a horse and he had a kittle turned up
side-down on his head. The kittle had four legs!"
Not even Aunt Lindie could keep a straight face, but
to spare Ben s feelings she gave out a verse that she felt
certain no one could say after her. And try as they would
no one could, not even when she said it slowly:
One a-tuory
Dickie davy
Ockie bonie
Ten a-navy.
Dickie manie
Murkum tine
Humble, bumble
Twenty-nine.
One a-two
A zorie, zinn
Allie bow
Crock a-bowL
Wheelbarrow
Moccasin
Jollaway
Ten.
140 Blue Ridge Country
No one could say it, try as they would.
"Then answer me this," Aunt Lindie said. "Does it
spell Tennessee or is it just an old comical way of count
ing?"
Again no one could answer and Aunt Lindie said smil
ingly if she told all she knew they would know as much
as she. Though perhaps she wasn t aware of it, Aunt Lindie
was keeping alive their interest in telling riddles. For
young folks went about in their neighborhood trying to
find answers to her riddles.
She now pointed to Katie Ford, and that young miss
started right off, saying:
"As I was going to St. Ives," but everyone protested, so
Katie had to try another that everyone didn t know.
As I was going over London bridge
I heard a lad give a call;
His tongue was ftesh, his mouth was horn,
And such a lad was never born.
"A rooster!" shouted cross-eyed Steve Morley, who
vowed Katie looked straight at him. And in the bat of an
eye he said:
As I went over London bridge
I met my sister Ann;
I pulled off her head and sucked her blood
And let her body stand.
"A bottle of wine," two in the corner spoke at once,
which was against the rules, but both thought Steve was
looking in their direction.
"Tell another," Aunt Lindie settled the matter.
"As I went over London bridge I met a man," said
Tradition 141
Steve. "If I was to tell his name I d be to blame. I have
told his name five times over. Who was it?"
No one spoke up for they all knew the answers to
Steve s simple, threadbare riddles. "The answer Is I," he
said, running a hand over his bristling pompadour.
And lest he assert his rights by starting on another, Aunt
Lindie, which was her right, gave a jingle and the answer
to it too.
As I walked out in my garden of lilies
There I saw endible, crindible, cronable kernt
Ofttimes pestered my eatable, peatable y partable present,
And I called for my man William, the second of quiHan^
To bring me a quill of anatilus feather
That I might conquer the endible, crindible, cronable
kernt.
She looked about the puzzled faces. "I ll not plague your
minds to find the answer. I ll give it to you. As the woman
walked out in her garden she saw a rabbit eating her cab
bage and she called for her second husband to bring her
a shotgun that she might kill the rabbit."
The old teller of riddles pointed out that there was good
in their telling. "People have been known to be scared
out of doing meanness just by a riddle. Now what would
you think this one would be?
Riddle to my riddle to my right,,
You can t guess where I laid last Friday night;
The wind did blow 3 my heart did ache
To see what a hole that fox did make.
Whoever knows can answer." She looked at Josie Binner.
"You have the best remembrance of anyone I know.
Don t tell me you can t give the answer*"
142 Blue Ridge Country
"I never heard it before," Josie had to admit, twisting
her kerchief and looking down at the floor.
"Speak out!" urged Aunt Lindie. But no one did so
she riddled the riddle. "A wicked man once planned to
kill his sweetheart. He went first to dig her grave and then
meant to throw her into it. She got an inkling of his in
tent, watched from the branches of a tree, then accused
him with that riddle. He skipped the country and so that
riddle saved a young girl s life. And while we re on trees,
here s another:
Horn eat a horn in a white oak tree.
Guess this riddle and you may hang me"
For the fun of it they all pretended not to know the
answer so she gave it. "You re just pranking," she admon
ished playfully, "but nohow a man named Horn eat a
calf s horn as he sat up in a white oak tree. But I ll give
you one now to take along with you. It s a Bible riddle,
now listen well:
God made Adam out of dust,
But thought it best to make me first;
So / was made before the man,
To answer God s most holy plan.
My body he did make complete,
But without legs or hands or feet;
My ways and actions did control.
And 1 was made without a souL
A living being / becam e;
Twos Adam that gave me my name;
Then from his presence I withdrew;
No more of Adam ever knew.
Tradition 143
I did my Maker s laws obey;
From them I never went astray;
Thousands of miles I run, I fear,
But seldom on the earth appear.
But God in me did something see,
And put a living soul in me.
A soul of me my God did claim,
And took from me that soul again.
But when from me the soul was fled,
I was the same as when first made.
And without hands, or feet, or soul,
I travel now from pole to pole.
I labor hard, both day and night,
To fallen man I give great light;
Thousands of people^ both young and old y
Will by my death great light behold.
No fear of death doth trouble me,
For happiness I cannot see;
To Heaven I shall never go.
Nor to the grave, or hell below.
And now, my friends, these lines you ready
And scan the Scriptures with all speed;
And if my name you don t find there,
Til think it strange, I must declare."
That was the way Aunt Lindie and other older mountain
women had of sending young folk to read the Word.
There was rarely a gathering for telling riddles and
trying simple fortunes, especially during the winter, that
did not end with a taffy pull. That too afforded the means
for courting couples to pair off and pursue their romance.
144 Blue Ridge Country
The iron pot filled with sorghum was swung over the
hearth fire to bubble and boil. In due time the mother of
the household dropped some of it with a spoon into a
dipper of cold water. If it hardened just right she knew the
sorghum had boiled long enough. Then it was poured into
buttered plates to cool. Often to add an extra flavor the
taffy was sprinkled with walnut kernels. The task of pick
ing out the kernels with Granny s knitting needles usually
fell to the younger folks. There on the hearth was a round
hole worn into the stone where countless walnuts had been
cracked year after year.
When the taffy had cooled so that it could be lifted up
in the hands the fun of pulling it began. The girls but
tered or greased their hands so that it would not stick,
and the boys, of their choice, did likewise. Pulling taffy
to see who could get theirs the whitest was an occasion for
greatest merriment. "Mine s the whitest/ you d hear a
young, tittering miss call out. Then followed comparisons,
friendly argument. And when at last the taffy was pulled
into white ropes it was again coiled on buttered plates in
fancy designs of hearts and links and left to harden until
it could be broken into pieces with quick tap of knife or
spoon.
Once more the courting couples paired off together and
helped themselves politely when the plate was passed.
Riddles and fortunes, taffy pulling and harmless kissing
games, like Clap In and Clap Out, Post Office, and I Lost
My Kerchief Yesterday, made for the young folk of the
mountains a most happy and (to them of yesterday) a most
hilarious occasion.
And when a neighbor like Aunt Binie Warwick gave
out the word there d be a frolic and dance at her house,
nothing but sickness or death could keep the young people
Tradition 145
away. Such an occasion started off with a play-game song
in order to get everyone in a gay mood. The hostess her
self led off in the singing:
Come gather east, come gather west,
Come round with Yankee thunder;
Break down the power of Mexico
And tread the tyrants under.
Everyone knew how to play it. The boys stood on one
side of the room, the girls on the other, and when the old
woman piped out the very first notes the boys started for
the girls, each with an eye on the one o his choice. Some
times two or more of the young fellows were of the same
mind, which added to the fun and friendly rivalry. The
one who first caught the right hand of the girl had her for
his partner in the dance that would follow. Immediately
each couple stepped aside and waited until the others had
found a partner. If there was a question about it, the
oldest woman present, who by her years was the recog
nized matchmaker of the community, decided the point.
"Who ll do the calling?" asked the hostess, Aunt Binie.
Everyone knew there was not a better caller anywhere
than Uncle Mose, who was just as apt at fiddling. So Uncle
Mose proudly took his place in the corner, chair tilted back
against the wall. Fiddle to chin, he called out: "Choose
your partners!"
With a quick eye he singled out one couple. "Lizzie,
you ve got a bound to stand to the right of the gent!"
Quickly Lizzie, tittering and blushing, stepped to the
other side of Dave.
"And you, Prudie," Uncle Mose waved a commanding
hand, "get on the other side of John. You fellows from
Fryin* Pan best leam the proper ways here and now."
146 Blue Ridge Country
A wave of laughter swept over the gathering and Uncle
Hose, sweeping the bow across the strings, called: "Salute
your partner!"
There was bowing and shuffling of feet and, as the
tempo of the fiddle increased, heels clicked against the
bare floor and the caller s voice rang out above music and
aug ter. Salute your corner lady,
Salute your partners, all:
Swing your corner lady
And promenade the hall.
They danced to the fiddle music of O Suzanna and Life
on the Ocean Wave, and Uncle Mose had calls to suit any
tune: . 7 7,,7
Swing old Adam
Swing Miss Eve,
Then swing your partner
As you leave.
Now and then a breathless girl would drop out and rest
a moment leaning against the wall. And just for fun an
oldster like Old Buck Rawlins, who didn t even have a
partner, caught up one boot toe and hopped off to a corner
rnnarting:
Sudie, Sudie y my foot is sore,
A-dancing on your puncheon floor.
Sometimes a young miss limped off to a chair. "Making
out like someone stepped on her toe," Aunt Binie whis
pered behind her hand, for she knew all the signs of young
folks, "but she s just not wanting to dance with Big Foot
Jeff PicketL" The next moment Dan Spotswood had
pulled himself loose from his cross-eyed partner and made
Tradition 147
his way to the side of his true love who had limped to
the corner.
Nor was Uncle Mose unmindful of what was going on.
The caller must have a quick eye, know who is courting,
who is on the outs, who craves to be again in the arms of
so and so. Quick as a flash he shouted, "Which shall it be
Butterfly Swing or Captain Jinks?"
"Captain Jinks," cried Dan Spotswood jovially. For Dan
knew the ways of the mountains. He didn t want any hard
feelings with anyone. This dance would give all an oppor
tunity to mingle and exchange partners. Even though Big
Foot had tried his best to break up the match between
him and Nellie, Dan meant that that fellow shouldn t have
the satisfaction of knowing his jealousy. So he urged the
couples into the circle. Dan, however, did see to it that he
had Nellie s hand as they circled halfway around the
crowded room before following the familiar calls of the
play-party game as they sang the words along with the
lively notes of the fiddle. They were words that their
grandparents had sung in the days of the Civil War, with
some latter-day changes:
Captain Jinks came home last night.
Pass your partner to the right;
Swing your neighbor so polite,
For that s the style in the army.
All join hands and circle left,
Circle left, circle left,
All join hands and circle left,
For that s the style in the army.
They saluted partners, they stepped and circled, and
sashayed, they fairly galloped around the room, much to
148 Blue Ridge Country
the disapproval of old Aunt Binie. "I don t favor no such
antic ways. They re steppin too lively." Her protest was
heeded.
The fiddler stopped short. Folks were respectful in that
day and time.
"Mose," the hostess called out to the fiddler when he
had rested a little while, "please to strike up the tune Pop
Goes the Weasel."
No sooner said than done. The notes of the fiddle rang
out and Uncle Mose himself led off in the singing:
A penny for a spool of thread,
A penny for a needle,
while old and young joined in the singing as each lad
stepped gallantly to the side of the girl of his choice and
went through the steps of the Virginia Reel.
Though all knew every step and danced with grace and
ease, they perhaps did not know that the dance was that
of Sir Roger de Coverley; that it was one of a large num
ber of English country dances, so called, not because they
were danced in the country, but because their English
ancestors corrupted the French word contredanse, which
had to do with the position the dancers assume. Of one
thing they could be sure, however, they owed it to their
elders that this charming dance had survived.*
* DANCE DIRECTIONS:
L a. Head lady and foot gentleman skip forward to meet each other in
center of the set. They bow and return to places.
b. Head gentleman and foot lady repeat a.
n, a. The head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and make one
revolution, holding right hands.
6. The head gentleman and foot lady repeat a.
c. The head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and make one revo-
tion, holding left hands.
d. Head gentleman and foot lady repeat c.
Tradition 149
With what charming ease even old Aunt Binie with an
aged neighbor went through the lovely figures of the Vir
ginia Reel, harking back to the days of powdered wigs,
buckled shoes, satin breeches and puffed skirts, as the head
lady and foot gentleman skipped forward to meet each
other in the center of the set. How gracefully she bowed
to him and he to her with hand upon his. chest, as they
returned to their places!
Then the head lady and foot gentleman skipped for
ward, made one revolution, holding right hands.
With dignity and charm they went through the entire
dance while those on the side lines continued to sing with
the fiddle:
A penny for a spool of thread,,
A penny for a needle.
That s the way the money goes.
Pop! goes the weasel.
Each time on the word "Pop!" the fiddler briskly
plucked a string.
There was an interlude of fiddle music without words,
then followed another verse while the dancers stepped the
tune:
m. a. Head lady and foot gentleman skip forward and around each other
back to back.
b. Head lady and foot gentleman repeat a.
IV. The head couple meet in center, lock right arms, and make one and
one-half revolutions. They go down the set swinging each one once
around with left arms locked, the gentleman swinging the ladies, the
lady swinging the gentlemen. They meet each other swinging
around with right arms locked, between each turn down the line. They
swing thus down the set.
V. Couples join hands, forming a bridge under which the head couple
skips to head of set. They separate, skipping down the outside of the
lines and take their new places at the foot of the set. The original
second couple is now the head couple. The dance is repeated from the
beginning until each couple has been the head couple.
150 Blue Ridge Country
All around the American flag,
All around the eagle.,
The monkey kissed the parson s wife,
Pop! goes the weasel.
This was followed by a lively tune, Vauxhall Dance,
with a lusty call from the fiddler: "Circle eight!"
Whereupon all Coined hands, circled to the left and to
place.
Head couple out to the right and circle four,,
With all your might
Around that couple take a peek!
At this Dan Spotswood peeked at smiling Nellie, almost
forgetting to follow the next figure in his excitement.
Back to the center and swing when you meet,
Around that couple peek once more*
Back to the center and swing all four,
Circle four and cross right o er,
The dance was moving toward the end.
"Balance all. Allemande left and promenade/* the fid
dler s voice raised louder.
There was repetition of calls and figures and a final
booming from the indefatigable caller: "Meet your part
ners and promenade home."
Then the fiddler struck up Cackling Hen and a Break
down so that the nimblest of the dancers might show out
alone and so the frolic and dance ended.
Tradition 151
THE INFARE WEDDING
Even when the dulcimer, that primitive three-stringed
instrument, could not be had, mountain folk in the raggeds
of Old Virginia were not at a loss for music with which
to make merry at the infare wedding. They stepped the
tune to the singing of a ballad, nor did they tire though
the infare wedding lasted all of three days and nights. It
began right after the wedding ceremony itself had been
spoken at the bride s home, you may be sure.
How happy the young couple were as they stood before
the elder, the groom with his waiter at his side, and the
bride with her waiter beside her. Careful they were too
that they stood the way the floor logs were running.
Thoughtless couples who had stood contrary to the cracks
in the floor had been known to be followed by ill luck.
When the elder had spoken the word which made them
one, the bride with her waiter hurried out to another
room, if there was such, if not she climbed the wall ladder
to the loft and there in the low-roofed bedroom she
changed her wedding frock for her infare dress the second
day dress. In early times it was of linsey-woolsey, woven
by her own hands, and dyed with homemade dyes, while
her wedding frock had been of snowy white linsey-
woolsey.
And what a feast her folks had prepared for the occa
sion, Cakes and pies, stewed pumpkin that had been dried
in rings before the fireplace, venison, and wild honey. ,
While the bride was changing to her infare dress, older
hands quickly took down the bedsteads, tied up the flock
ticks and shuck ticks in coverlids and quilts, shoved them
152 Blue Ridge Country
back into the corners so as to make room for the frolic
and dancing.
If the bride s granny lived it was her privilege to lead
off in the singing, which she did in a high querulous voice
while the young folks, the boys on one side, the girls on
the other, faced each other and to soft handclapping and
lightly tapping toe sang:
There lived an old Lord by the Northern sea,
Bowee down,
There lived an old Lord by the Northern sea,
And he had daughters one, two three;
I ll be true to my love,
If my love will be true to me.
All the while the bride and groom sat primly side-by-
side near the hearth and looked on.
The rest stepped the tune to the singing of the Twa
Sisters, reenacting the story of the old ballad as it moved
along.
It gave everyone an opportunity to swing and step.
After that the bride s father stepped to the middle of
the room and urged even the bride to join in. In the
meantime the young folks had taken the opportunity to
tease the bride, while the young men went further by
bussing her cheek. A kiss of the modest, proper sort was
not out of order; every groom knew and expected that.
Even a most jealous fellow knew to conceal his displeasure,
for it would only add to further pranking on the part of
the rest if he protested.
Presently two of the young lads came in bearing a pole.
They caught the eye of the groom who knew full well the
meaning of the pole. Quickly he tapped his pocket till the
silver jingled, nodded assent to the unspoken query. They
Tradition 153
should have silver to buy a special treat for all the men-
folks; forthwith the polebearers withdrew, knowing the
groom would keep his word.
And now the father of the bride egged the groom and
his wife to step out and join in singing and dancing the
next song, which the father started in a rollicking, husky
Charlie s neat, and Charlie s sweet,
And Charlie he s a dandy.
It was a dignified song and one of the few in which the
woman advanced first toward the man in the dance. The
lads already being foimed in line at one side, the girls one
at a time advanced as all sang, took a partner by the hand,
swung him once; then stepping, in time with the song, to
the next the lad repeated the simple step until she had
gone down the line. The second girl followed as soon as
the first girl had swung the first lad, and so each in turn
participated, skipping finally on the outside of the oppo
site line, making a complete circle of the dancers, and
resuming her first position.
It did not concern them that they were singing and step
ping an old Jacobean song that had been written in jest
of a Stuart King, Charles II.
, At the invitation of the bride s mother the dancing
ceased for a time so that all might partake of the feast she
had spent days preparing. Even in this there was the spirit
of friendly rivalry. The bride s mother sought to outdo the
groom s parent in preparing a feast for the gathering; the
next day, according to their age-old custom, the celebra
tion of the infare would continue at the home of his folks.
When all had eaten their fill again the bride s granny
carried out her part of the tradition. She hobbled in with
a rived oak broom. This she placed in the center of the
154 Blue Ridge Country
floor with the brush toward the door. Everyone knew that
was the sign for ending the frolic at the bride s home. Also
they knew it was the last chance for a shy young swain to
declare himself to his true love as they sang the ancient
ballad, which granny would start, and did its bidding.
Usually not one of the unwed would evade this custom.
For, if she sang and stepped with him, it meant betrothal.
So they stepped and sang lustily:
Here comes the poor old chimney sweeper,
He has but one daughter and cannot keep her.
Now she has resolved to marry,
Go choose the one and do not tarry.
Now you have one of your own choosing,
Be in a hurry, no time for losing;
Join your right hands, this broom step over,
And kiss the lips of your true lover.
So ended the infare wedding at the bride s home.
The next day all went to the home of the groom s par
ents and repeated the feasting and dancing, and on the
third day the celebration continued at the home of the
young couple.
In those days mountain people shared each other s work
as well as their play. Willing hands had already helped
the young groom raise his house of logs on a house seat
given by his parents, and along the same creek.
It was the way -civilization moved. The son settled on
the creek where his father, like his before him, had set
tled, only moving farther up toward its source as his father
had done when he had wed.
5. Religious Customs
FUNERALIZING
f^| X&gt; THE outsider far removed, or even to people in
JL the nearby lowlands, mountain people may seem
stoic. A mountain woman whose husband is being tried
for his life may sit like a figure of stone not for lack of
feeling, but because she d rather die than let the other side
know her anguish. A little boy who loses his father will
steal off to cliff or wood and suffer in silence. No one
shall see or know his grief. "He s got a-bound to act like
a man, now." The burden of the family is upon his young
shoulders.
Mountain folk love oratory. Men, especially, will travel
miles to a speaking which may be a political gathering or
one for the purpose of discussing road building.
To all outward appearances they seem unmoved, yet
they drink in with deep emotion all that is said- Both men
and women are eager to go to meeting. Meeting to them
means a religious gathering. Here they listen with rapt
attention to the lesser eloquence of the mountain preacher.
But at meeting, unlike at speaking, they give vent to their
emotions, especially if the occasion be that of funeral i zing
the dead.
Much has been written upon this custom, but the ques-
155
156 Blue Ridge Country
tion still prevails, "Why do mountain people hold a
funeral so long after burial?"
The reason is this. Long ago, before good roads were
even dreamed of in the wilderness, when death came,
burial of necessity followed immediately. But often long
weeks, even months, elapsed before the word reached rela
tives and friends. There were few newspapers in those
days and often as not there were those who could neither
read nor write. For the same reason there was little, if any,
exchange of letters.
So the custom of funeralizing the dead long after burial
grew from a necessity. The funeralizing of a departed kins
man or friend was published from the pulpit. The be
reaved family set a day, months or even a year in advance,
for the purpose of having the preacher eulogize their be
loved dead. "Come the third Sunday in May next sum
mer/* a mountain preacher could be heard in mid winter
publishing the occasion. "Brother Tom s funeral will be
held here at Christy Creek church house/
The word passed. One told the other and when the ap
pointed Sunday rolled around the following May, friends
and kin came from far and near, bringing their basket
dinner, for no one family could have prepared for the
throng. Together, when they had eaten their fill, they
gathered about the grave house to weep and mourn and
sing over "Brother Tom/* dead and gone this long time.
The grave house was a crude structure of rough planks
supported by four short posts, erected at the time of the
burial to shelter the dead from rain and snow and scorch
ing wind.
Many a one, having warning of approaching death,
named the preacher he wished to preach his funeral, even
naming the text and selecting the hymns to be sung.
Religious Customs 157
As the service moved along after the singing of a doleful
hymn, the sobbing and wailing increased. The preacher
eulogized the departed, praising his many good deeds
while on earth, and urged his hearers on to added hysteria
with, "Sing Brother Tom s favorite hymn, Oh, Brother,
Will You Meet Me!"
Sobs changed to wailing as old and young joined in the
doleful dirge:
Oh, brother, will you meet me,
Meet me, meet me?
Oh, brother, will you meet me
On Canaan s far-off shore.
It was a family song; so not until each member had been
exhorted to meet on Canaan s shore did the hymn end-
each verse followed of couree with the answer:
Oh, yes, we will meet you
On Canaan s far-off shore.
By this time the mourners were greatly stirred up,
whereupon the preacher in a trembling, tearful voice
averred, "When I hear this promising hymn it moves deep
the spirit in me, it makes my heart glad. Why, my good
friends, I could shout! I just nearly see Brother Tom over
yonder a-beckoning to me and to you. He ain t on this
here old troubled world no more and he won t be. Will
Brother Tom be here when the peach tree is in full blowth
in the spring?"
"No!" wailed the flock.
"Will Brother Tom be here when the leaves begin to
drap in the falling weather?" again he wailed*
"No!"
"Will Brother Tom be up thar? Up thar?" the swift
158 Blue Ridge Country
arm of the preacher shot upward "when Gabriel blows
his trump?"
"Eh, Lord, Brother Tom will be up thar!" shouted an
old woman.
"Amen!" boomed from the throat of everyone.
As it often happened, Tom s widow had long since
re-wed, but neither she nor her second mate were in the
least dismayed. They wept and wailed with fervor, "He ll
be thar! He ll be thar!"
"Yes/ boomed the preacher once more, "Brother Tom
will be thar when Gabriel blows his trump!"
Then abruptly in a very calm voice, not at all like that
in which he had shouted, the preacher lined the hymn:
Arise, my soul, and spread thy wings,
A better portion trace.
Having intoned the two lines the flock took up the dole
ful dirge.
So they went on until the hymns were finished.
After a general handshaking and repeated farewells and
the avowed hope of meeting again come the second Sun
day in May next year, the funeralizing ended.
OLD CHRISTMAS
Though in some isolated sections of the Blue Ridge, say
in parts of the Unakas, the Cumberlands, the Dug Down
Mountains of Georgia, there are people who may never
have heard of the Gregorian or Julian calendar, yet in
keeping Old Christmas as they do on January 6th, they
ding unwittingly to the Julian calendar of 46 B.C., intro
duced in this country in the earliest years. To them De-
Religious Customs 159
cember 25th is New Christmas, according to the Gregorian
calendar adopted in 1752.
They celebrate the two occasions in a very different way-
The old with prayer and carol-singing, the new with gaiety
and feasting.
To these people there are twelve days of Christmas be
ginning with December 25th and ending with January 6th.
In some parts of these southern mountain regions, if their
forbears were of Pennsylvania German stock, they call
Old Christmas Little Christmas as the Indians do. But
such instances are rare rather than commonplace.
Throughout the twelve days of Christmas there are
frolic and fireside play-games and feasting, for which every
family makes abundant preparation. There is even an
ancient English accumulative song called Twelve Days of
Christmas which is sung during the celebrations, in which
the true love brings a different gift for each day of the
twelve. The young folks of the community go from home
to home, bursting in with a cheery "Christmas gift!"
Those who have been taken unaware, though it happens
the same way each year, forgetting, in the pleasant excite
ment of the occasion, to cry the greeting first, must pay a
forfeit of something good to eat cake, homemade taffy,
popcorn, apples, nuts.
After the feast the father of the household passes the
wassail cup, which is sweet cider drunk from a gourd
dipper. Each in turn drinks to the health of the master of
the house and his family.
Throughout the glad season some of the young bloods
are inclined to take their Christmas with rounds of shoot
ing into the quiet night. Some get gloriously drunk on
hard cider and climbing high on the mountain side shout
and shoot to their hearts* content.
160 Blue Ridge Country
However, when Old Christmas arrives, even the most
boisterous young striplings assume a quiet, prayerful calm.
The children s play-pretties the poppet, a make-believe
corn-shuck doll the banjo, and fiddle are put aside. In
the corner of the room is placed a pine tree. It stands un
adorned with tinsel or toy. On the night of January 6th,
just before midnight, the family gathers about the hearth.
Granny leads in singing the ancient Cherry Tree Carol,
sometimes called Joseph and Mary, which celebrates Janu
ary 6th as the day of our Lord s birth. With great solem
nity Granny takes the handmade taper from the candle
stick on the mantel-shelf, places it in the hands of the
oldest man child, to whom the father now passes a lighted
pine stick. With it the child lights the taper. The father
lifts high his young son who places the lighted taper on
the highest branch of the pine tree where a holder has
been placed to receive it. This is the only adornment upon
the tree and represents a light of life and hope "like a star
of hope that guided the Wise Men to the manger long
ago," mountain folk say.
In the waiting silence comes the low mooing of the cows
and the whinny of nags, and looking outside the cabin
door the mountaineer sees his cow brutes and nags kneel
ing in the snow under the starlit sky. "It is the sign that
this is for truth our Lord s birth night," Granny whispers
softly.
Then led by the father of the household, carrying his
oldest man child upon his shoulder, the womenfolk fol
lowing behind, they go down to the creek side. Kneeling,
the father brushes aside the snow among the eldere, and
there bursting through the icebound earth appears a green
shoot bearing a white blossom.
"It is the sign that this is indeed our Lord s birth night,
Religious Customs 161
the sign that January 6th is the real Christmas/ old folk
of the Blue Ridge bear witness.
FOOT-WASHING
He riseth from supper, and laid aside his garments; and
took a towel, and girded himself.
After that he poureth water into a bason, and began to
wash the disciples feet, and to wipe them with the
towel wherewith he was girded.
"It is writ in the Good Book," said Brother Jonathan
solemnly, "in the thirteen chapter of St. John, the fourth
and the fifth verses/
With hands meekly clasped in front of him Brother
Jonathan stood not behind a pulpit but beside a small
table. Nor did he hold the Book. That too lay on the
table beside the water bucket, where he had placed it
after taking his text.
It could be in Pleasant Valley Church in Magoffin
County, or in Old Tar Kiln Church in Carter County;
it could be in Bethel Church high up in the Unakas, or
Antioch Church in Cowee, Nantahala, Dry Fork, or New
Hope Chapel in Tusquitee, in Bald or Great Smoky. Any
where, everywhere that an Association of Regular Primi
tive Baptists hold forth, and they are numerous through
out the farflung scope of the mountains of the Blue Ridge,
"He laid aside his garments . . . and after that he
poureth water into a bason, and began to wash the feet
of the disciples. , . / Again Brother Jonathan repeated
the words.
Slowly, deliberately he went over much that had gone
before. This being the third Sunday of August and the
162 Blue Ridge Country
day for Foot-washing in Lacy Valley Church where other
brethren of the Burning Spring Association had already
been preaching since sunup. One after the other had
spelled each other, taking text after text. And now Brother
Jonathan this being his home church had taken the
stand to give out the text and preach upon that precept
of the Regular Primitive Baptists of washing feet. It was
the home preacher s sacred privilege.
Old folks dozed, babies fretted, young folks twisted and
squirmed in the straight-backed benches. A parable he
told, a story of salvation, conviction, damnation. But al
ways he came back to the thirteenth chapter of St. John.
He spoke again of that part of the communion service
which had preceded: the partaking of the unleavened
bread, which two elders had passed to the worthy seated
in two rows facing each other at the front of the little
church; the men in the two benches on the right, the
womenfolk in the two benches facing each other on the
left. Among these, who had already examined their own
conscience to make sure of their worthiness, had passed
an elder with a tumbler of blackberry juice. He walked
close behind the elder who bore the plate of unleavened
bread. The first said to each worthy member, "Remember
this represents the broken body of our Lord who died on
this cross for our sins." The second intoned in a deep
voice, "This represents the blood of our Lord who shed
Ms blood for our sins/* All the while old and young
throughout the church house had sung that well-known
hymn of the Regular Primitive Baptists.
When Jesus Christ was here below,
He taught His people what to do;
Religious Customs 163
And if we would His precepts keep,
We must descend to washing feet.
That part of the service being ended, Brother Jonathan
exhorted the flock to make ready for foot-washing.
The men in their benches removed shoes and socks.
The women on the other side of the church, facing each
other in their two benches, removed shoes and stockings.
A sister arose, girthed herself with a towel, knelt at a sis
ter s feet with a tin washpan filled with water from the
creek, and meekly washed the other s feet. Having dried
them with an end of the long towel, she now handed it
to the other who performed a like service for her. This
act of humility was repeated by each of the worthy. All
the while there was hymn-singing.
The menfolk who participated removed their coats and
hung them beside their hats on wall pegs.
"It is all Bible/* the devout declare. "He laid aside His
garments. We take off our coats."
Brother Jonathan and the other elders are last to wash
each other s feet,
And when the service is ended and the participants
have again put on their shoes, they raise their voices in a
hymn they all know well:
/ love Thy Kingdom, Lord,
The House of Thine abode.
The church our blessed Redeemer saved
With His own precious blood.
The tin washpans were emptied frequently out the door
and refilled from the bucket on the table, for many were
they, both women and men, of the Regular Primitive
Baptist faith who felt worthy to wash feet
164 Blue Ridge Country
At the invitation everyone arose and those who felt
so minded went forward to take the hand of preacher,
elder, moderator, sister, and brother, in fellowship. An
aged sister here, another there, clapped bony hands high
over head, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" and "Bless His
precious name!"
Again all was quiet. Brother Jonathan announced that
there would be foot-washing at another church in the As
sociation on the fourth Sunday of the month and slowly,
almost reluctantly, they went their way.
NEW LIGHT
SNAKE BITE IS FATAL. RELIGIOUS ADHERENT DIES FROM BITE
AFTER REFUSING MEDICAL AH&gt;
The death of 48-year-old Robert Cordle, who refused
medical aid after being bitten by a rattlesnake during
church services, brought 1,500 curious persons today to
a funeral home to see his body.
While the throngs passed the bier of the Doran resi
dent, the Richlands council passed an ordinance outlaw
ing the use of snakes in religious services and sent officers
to the New Light church to destroy the reptiles there.
Commonwealth s Attorney John B. Gillespie, who esti
mated the visitors at the funeral home totaled 1,500, said
after an investigation that no arrests would be made. He
explained that the state of Virginia has no law, similar to
that in Kentucky, forbidding the use of snakes in church
services.
J. W. Grizzel of Bradshaw, itinerant pastor who
preached at the services Thursday night when Cordle was
bitten, was questioned by Gillespie.
The Commonwealth s attorney quoted Grizzel as say
ing:
"I was dancing with the snake held above my head.
Brother Cordle approached me and took the snake from
Religious Customs 165
my hands. I told him not to touch it unless he was ready."
After a moment, the rattler struck Cordle in the arm,
Gillespie said Grizzle told him. Cordle threw the snake
into the lap of George Hicks, 15, and then was taken to
the home of a friend and later to his own home.
The Ashland Daily Independent
CHILD, SNAKEBITTEN AT RITES, MAY GET
MEDICAL CARE
Kinsmen of snake-bitten Leitha Ann Rowan permitted
her examination by a physician today, but barred actual
treatment and claimed she was recovering rapidly in jus
tification of their sect s belief that faith counteracts venom.
The six-year-old child was brought to Sheriff W. I.
Daughtrey s office today by relatives, after having been
missing for three days while her mother, Mrs. Albeit
Rowan, sought to avoid treatment for the girl.
Dr. H. W. Clements did not support relatives claims
that Leitha Ann was almost fully recovered but said she
had made some progress in overcoming the effects of a
Copperhead Moccasin s bite sustained eight days ago in
religious rites at her farm home near here.
He said her condition remained serious and directed
that she be brought to his office for another examination
Monday.
Meanwhile the child s father, a mild-mannered tenant
fanner, and preacher-farmer W. T. Lipahm, tall leader of
the snake-handling folk, remained in jail on charges of
assault with intent to murder. Sheriff Daughtrey said they
would be allowed freedom under $3,000 bonds when the
child is pronounced out of danger.
Atlanta Journal
MAN SUFFERS SNAKE BITE DURING
RELIGIOUS RITES
A man listed by chief of police Ralph Tuggle as Ray
mond Hayes of Harlan county was in a serious condition
166 Blue Ridge Country
today from the bite of a copperhead snake suffered yester
day during religious exercises in a vacant storeroom.
Hayes and three other persons, including a woman, were
under bond Chief Tuggle said, pending a hearing Friday
on charges of violating a Kentucky statute prohibiting
the use of snakes in religious ceremonies.
Tuggle said the four first appeared on the courthouse
square and started to hold services from the bandstand
but that he dispersed them. The chief said they then se
cured a vacant storeroom which was quickly crowded and
before police could break up the gathering Hayes had
been bitten by the copperhead.
Barbouruille y Ky., Advocate
MAN DIES OF SNAKE BITE. SECOND MEMBER OF RELIGIOUS
SECT TO DIE IN FOUR DAYS; BITTEN DURING SERVICES
County Attorney Dennis Wooton listed Jim Cochran,
39, unemployed mechanic, today as the second member
of an eastern Kentucky snake-handling religious sect to
die within four days as the result of bites suffered during
church services.
Bitten on the right hand Sunday morning Cochran,
married and father of several children, died 18 hours later
at his home at nearby Duane.
Mrs. Clark Napier, 40, mother of seven children, died
Thursday night at Hyden, coal-mining community in ad
jacent Leslie county, and County-Judge Pro-Tern Boone
Begley said she had been bitten at services.
Wooton said Jimmy Stidham, Lawsie Smith and Albert
Collins were fined 150. each after Cochran s death on
charges of violating the 1940 anti-snake-handling law.
Unable to pay, they were jailed, he said.
Elige Bowling, a Holiness church preacher, is under
bond pending grand jury action on a murder charge in
the death of Mrs. Napier. Wooton said Perry county offi
cials would be guided on further prosecution in the Coch
ran case by disposition of the Leslie county case.
Gorbin, Ky., Times
Religious Customs 167
Finding themselves in the throes of the law, members
o the snake-handling sect at times turned to drinking
poison in testing their faith. There was no legislation to
prevent it, the leaders craftily observed. However, in some
southern mountain states such a measure has been advo
cated.
At times, nevertheless, even in cases of death from
snakebite during religious service, county officials refused
to prosecute, saying the matter was up to the state itself
to dispose of.
6. Superstition
BIG SANBY RIVER
r I ^HERE once prevailed a superstition among timber-
1 men in the Big Sandy country which dated back to
the Indian.
The mountain men knew and loved their own Big
Sandy River. They rode their rafts fearlessly, leaping dar
ingly from log to log to make fast a dog chain, even jump
ing from one slippery, water-soaked raft to another to
capture with spike pole or grappling hook a log that had
broken loose. They had not the slightest fear when a raft
budded or broke away from the rest and was swept by
swift current to midstream. There were quick and ready
hands to the task. Loggers of the Big Sandy kept a cool
head and worked with swift decisive movements. But,
once their rafts reached the mouth of Big Sandy, there
were some in the crew who could neither be persuaded
nor bullied to ride the raft on through to the Ohio. Strong-
muscled men have been known to quit their post, leap
into the turbulent water before the raft swept forward
into the forbidding Ohio. They remembered the warning
of witch women, "Don t ride the raft into the Big Waters!
Leap off!" So the superstitious often leaped, taking his life
in his bands and often losing it.
168
Superstition 169
WATER WITCH
If anyone wanted to dig a well in Pizen Gulch he
wouldn t think of doing it without first sending for Noah
Buckley, the water witch. He lived at the head of Tum
bling Creek. Noah wore a belt of rattlesnake skin to keep
off rheumatism. "That belt s got power," Noah boasted.
And young boys in the neighborhood admitted it. More
than one who had eaten too many green apples and lay
groveling under the tree, drawn in a knot with pain,
screamed in his misery for Noah. If Noah was within
hearing he went on a run, fast as his long legs could cany
him. And the young sufferer reaching out a hand touched
the rattlesnake belt and quicker than you could bat an
eye his griping pains left and the next thing he was up
playing around.
However, it was his power to find water that was Noah
Buckley s pride. He took a twig from a peach tree, held
a prong in each hand, and with head bent low he stumbled
about here and there mumbling:
*&
Water, -water, if you be there,
Bend this twig and show me where.
If the twig bent low to the earth you could count on it
that was the spot where the well should be dug. To mark
the spot Noah stuck the twig at once into the earth.
Mischievous boys sometimes slipped around, pulled up
the peach branch and threw it away. Again there would
be a doubting Thomas who sought to test the water
witch s power by stealing away the peach branch and
dropping in its place a pebble. But Noah was not to be
defeated. He forthwith cut another branch, repeated the
170 Blue Ridge Country
ceremony, and located the exact spot again. Whereupon
neighbor menfolk pitched in and dug the well. Not all in
one day, of course. It took several days but their labors
were always rewarded with clear, cold water at last.
A well once dug where Noah directed never went dry.
That was his boast as long as he lived.
However, it was not so much his power to find water
that strengthened the faith of people in the water witch.
It was what happened on Dog Slaughter Creek. The Mos-
leys, a poor family, had squatted on a miserable place
there. One day the baby of the lot toddled off without
being missed by the other nine children of the flock. When
Jake Mosley and his wife Norie came in from the tobacco
patch they began to search frantically for the babe, scream
ing and crying as they dashed this way and that. They
looked under the house, in the well, in the barn. They
even went to neighbors pig lots; the Mosleys had none
of their own. "I ve heard of a sow or a boar pig too eating
up the carcass of a child," a neighbor said. "Maybe the
babe s roamed off into Burdick s pasture and the stallion
has tromped her underfoot," Jake opined. With lighted
pine sticks to guide their steps they searched the pasture.
There was no trace even of a scrap of the child s dress
anywhere to be seen on ground or fence.
At last someone said, "Could be a water witch might
have knowing to find a lost child!" And the frantic par
ents moaned, "Could be. Send for the water witch."
It was after midnight that neighbors came bringing the
water diviner.
"Give me a garmint of the lost child," Noah spoke with
authority, "a garmint that the little one has wore that s
not been washed."
The mother tearfully produced a bedraggled garment.
Superstition 171
The water witch took it in his hand, sniffed it, turned
it wrongside out, sniffed it again, "Now have you got a
lock of the little one s hair?" He looked at Norie, moaning
on the shuck tick bed, then at Jake. They stared at each
other. At last Norie raised up on her elbow. They did
have a lock of the babe s hair, "Mind the time she nigh
strangled to death with croup" the mother fixed weary
eyes on the father of her ten children "and we cut off a
lock of her hair and put it in the clock?"
In one bound Jake Mosley crossed the floor and reached
the clock on the mantel. Sure enough there was the little
lock of hair wrapped around with a thread. Without a
word Jake handed it to the water witch.
Noah eyed it in silence. "I ll see what can be done/ he
promised at last, "but, Jake, you and Norie and the chil
dren stay here. And you, neighbors, stay here too. 111 be
bound to go alone."
With a flaming pine stick in one hand and the child s
dress and lock of hair in the other, he set out.
Before morning broke, the water witch came carrying
the lost child.
They hovered about him, the parents kissed and hugged
their babe close and everyone was asking questions at the
same time. "How did it happen?" "Where did you find
the little one?"
"I come upon a rock ledge," said Noah with a great
air of mystery, "and then I fell upon my knees. I d cut
me a peach branch down at the edge of the pasture. I
gripped the lost child s garmint and the lock of her hair
on one hand with a prong of the peach branch clutched
tight in fists this way," he extended clenched hands to
show the awed friends and neighbors. "I d already put
out the pine torch for daylight was coming. It took quite
172 Blue Ridge Country
a time before I could feel the little garmint twitching in
my hand. Then the peach branch begun to bear down to
the ground. First thing I know something like a breath of
wind pulled that little garmint toward the edge of the
rock cliff. My friends, I knowed I was on the right track.
I dropped flat on my belly and retched a hand under the
cliff. I touched the little one s bare foot! Then with both
hands I dragged her out. This child" he lifted a pious
countenance "could a-been devoured by wild varmints
a catamount or wolf. There s plenty of such in these
woods. But the water witch got there ahead of the var
mints!"
The mother began to sob and wail, "Bless the good old
water witch!" and the joyful father gave the diviner the
only greenback he had and said he was only sorry he
didn t have a hundred to give him.
After that more than one sought out the water witch.
Even offered him silver to teach them his powers.
"It s not good to tell all you know, then others would
know as much as you do/* said Noah Buckley of Pizen
Gulch, who knew that to keep his powers a water witch
has to keep secrets too.
MARRYING ON HORSEBACK.
Millie Eckers, with her arms around his waist, rode
behind Robert Burns toward the county seat one spring
morning to get married. But before they got there along
came Joe Fultz, a justice of the peace, to whom they told
their intent Joe said the middle of the road on horseback
was as good a place as any for a pair to be spliced, so
then and there he had them join right hands. When they
were pronounced man and wife Robert handed Joe a
Superstition 173
frayed greenback in exchange for the signed certificate of
marriage. Joe Eckers always carried a supply of blank
documents in his saddlebags to meet any emergency that
might arise within his bailiwick. The justice of the peace
pocketed his fee, wished Mister and Mistress Burns a long
and happy married life, and rode away, and Robert turned
his mare s nose back toward Little Goose Creek from
whence they had come.
Some said, soon as they heard about Millie and Robert
being married on horseback right in the middle of the
road, that no good would come of it. As for the preacher
he said right out that while the justice of the peace was
within his rights, he had observed in his long ministry
that couples so wed were sure to meet with misfortune
mairied on horseback and without the blessing of an
Apostle of the Book,
Scarcely had Millie and Robert settled down to house
keeping than things began to go wrong.
One morning when the dew was still on the grass Millie
went out to milk. "Bossy had roamed away off ferninst
the thicket," she told Robert, "and ginst I got there to
where she was usin I scatched the calf of my leg on a
briar."
Robert eyed her swollen limb. "Seein* your meat black
like it is and the risin* in your calf so angry, Tin certain
you ve got dew pizen."
Sure enough she had. Millie lay for days and when the
rising came to a head in a place or two, Robert lanced
it with the sharp blade of his penknife.
Some weeks later old Doc Robbins who chanced by
wondered how Millie had escaped death from blood poi
son from the knife blade, until the young husband told
casually how when he was a little set along child he had
174 Blue Ridge Country
seen an old doctor dip the blade of a penknife in a boiling
kettle of water and lance a carbuncle on another s neck.
He had done the same for Millie*
No sooner was she up and about than something else
happened.
Millie and Robert had just the one cow but soon they
had none. Even so Millie said things might have been
worse. "It could have been Robert that was taken/* And
he said, bearing their loss stoically, "What is to be will
be, if it comes in the night."
It was Millie who first noticed something was wrong
with Bossy- It was right after she had found her grazing
in the chestnut grove. All the young growth had been
cut out and the branches of the trees formed a solid shade
so that coming out of the sunlight into the grove Millie
blinked and groped in the darkness with hands out before
her, feeling her way and calling, "Sook, Bossy! Sook!
Sook!" Millie all but stumbled over the cow down on her
all fours. She coaxed and patted for a long time before
Bossy finally got to her feet and waddled slowly out of
the shaded grove into the sunlit meadow.
That evening Robert did the milking. But before he
began he stroked Bossy s nose and bent close. "I ve caught
the stench of her breath! * he cried. "Sniff for yourself,
Millie!"
Millie did. "Smells worser n a dung pile," she gasped,
hand to stomach.
Quick as a flash Robert put the tin pail under Bossy s
bag and began to milk with both hands.
There was scarcely a pint in the bucket until Robert
gaped at Millie. "Look! It don t foam!" His eyes widened
with apprehension. He took a silver coin from his pocket,
dropped it into the pail and waited. In a few moments
Superstition 175
he fished It out. "Black as coal!" gasped Robert "Our
cow s got milk sick!"
Bossy slumped to the ground. By sundown the cow was
stark dead.
Before dark Robert himself grew deathly ill.
They remembered that at noon time he had spread a
piece of cornbread with Bossy s butter. He had drunk a
cup of her milk.
Millie lost no moment. She mixed mustard in a cup of
hot water and Robert downed it almost at a gulp.
"He begun to puke and purge until I thought his
gizzard would sure come up next," Millie told it after
ward. "All that live-long night he puked and strained till
he got so weakened his head hung over the side of the
bed and hot water poured out of his mouth same as if
he had water brash. Along toward morning Doc Robbins
come riding by. He had a bottle of apple brandy and we
mixed it with wild honey. It wasn t long till Robert got
ease. Doc set a while and about the middle of the morn
ing he give Robert two heaping spoonfuls of castor oil/*
From then on no one could coax Robert Burns to
touch a mouthful of butter nor drink a cup of sweet milk.
Though he drank his fill of buttermilk with never a
pain.
As for the shaded grove where the cow had grazed,
every tree was cleared away at Doc Robbins s orders. The
sunlight poured into the place and soon there was a green
meadow where once the shaded plot had been covered
with a poisoned vegetation. Cows grazed at their will
over the place with no ill effects.
Srill Robert had no hankering for butter or sweet milk.
"You ve no need to fear milk sick now," Doc Robbins
tried to reassure Robert. "It s never found where there s
176 Blue Ridge Country
sunlight." Though he could never figure out whether the
deep shade produced a poisonous gas that settled on the
vegetation, or whether it came from some mineral in the
ground, he did know, and so did others, that whatever
the cause it disappeared when sunlight took the place of
dense shade.
The incident was scarcely forgotten when ill luck again
befell Millie and Robert. Their barn burned to the
ground, reducing their harvest and their only mule to
ashes.
Tongues wagged. "Bad luck comes to the couple mar
ried on horseback."
Everyone the countryside over was convinced of the
truth of the old superstition one fall when a tragedy un
heard-of overtook Millie at sorghum-making.
No one ever knew how it happened. But some said that
Brock Cyrus s half-witted boy was the cause of it. He
shouted, "Look out tharl" and Millie, looking up from
her task of feeding cane stalks into the mill, saw, or
thought she saw, her babe, Little Robert, toddling toward
the boiling pans. She screamed and lunged forward, and
as she did so the mule started on a run. The beam to
which it was hitched whirled about and struck Millie help
less. Before anyone could reach her side or stop the
frightened mule, her right hand was drawn into the mill,
then her left. With another revolution of the iron teeth
of the cane mill both of her arms were chopped into
shreds.
It was necessary for old Doc Robbins to amputate both
at the shoulders. Everyone thought it would take Millie
Burns out and they said as much. But she lived long, long
years, even raised a family. All her days she sat in a strange
chair that Robert made. A chair with a high shelf on
Superstition 177
which her babes, each in turn, lay to nurse at her breast.
And always the armless woman was pointed out as a
warning to young courting couples, "Don t get married
on horseback! It brings ill luck, no end of ill luck."
DEATH CROWN
Once you evidence even the slightest respect of a super
stition in the Blue Ridge Country there is ever a firm
believer eager to show proof of the like beyond all doubt.
It was so with Widow Plater as we sat by the flickering
light of the little oil lamp in her timeworn cabin that
looked down on the Shenandoah Valley.
"I want to show you Josephus s crown," she said in a
hushed voice. Going to the bureau she opened the top
drawer, bringing out what appeared to be a plate wrapped
in muslin. She placed it on the stand table beside the lamp
and carefully laid back the covering, revealing a matted
circle of feathers about the size of the human head. The
circle was about two inches thick and a finger length in
width. Strangely enough the feathers were all running the
same way and were so closely matted together they did not
pull apart even under pressure of the widow s firm hand,
she showed with much satisfaction. "Can t no one pull
asunder a body s death crown," she said with firm convic
tion.
Resuming her chair she went on with the story. "All
of six months my husband, Josephus, poor soul, lay sick
with his poor head resting on the same pillow day in and
day out. I d come to know he was on his death bed/* she
said resignedly, "for one day when I smoothed a hand
over his pillow I felt there his crown a-forming inside the
ticking. I d felt the crown with my own hands and I knew
178 Blue Ridge Country
death was hovering over my man. Though I didn t tell
him so. I wanted he should not be troubled, that he should
die a peaceable death and he did. When we laid him out
we put the pillow under his head and when we laid him
away I opened the pillow and took out his crown that I
knew to be there all of six months before he breathed his
last/ She sighed deeply. "It s not everyone that has a
crown" there was wistful pride in her voice "and them
that has, they do say, is sure of another up yonder." The
Widow Plater lifted tear-dimmed eyes heavenward. "And
what s more, it is the bounden duty of them that s left to
keep the crown of their dead to their own dying day.
Josephus s death crown I ll pass on to my oldest daughter
when my time comes."
Carefully she folded the matted circle of feathers in its
muslin covering and reverently replaced k in the bureau
drawer.
A WHITE FEATHER
Rhodie Polhemus who lived on Bear Fork of Puncheon
Greek was one who believed in signs. It had started long
years ago when Alamander, her husband, had met an un
timely fate. That morning after he had gone out hunting
Rhodie was sweeping the floor when she saw a white
feather fluttering about the brush of her broom. It hov
ered strangely in midair, then sank slowly to the puncheon
floor near the door. "The angel of death is nigh. There ll
be a corpse under this roof this day." Rhodie trembled
with fear. Sure enough Alamander was carried in stark
dead before sundown. It came at a time when there wasn t
a plank on the place. They had disposed of their timber,
which was little enough, as fast as it was sawed. So that
there was not a piece left with which to make Alaman-
Superstition 179
der s burying box. Nor was there a whipsaw in the whole
country round with which to work, the itinerate sawyer
having gone on with his property to another creek. But
folks were neighborly and willing. They cut down a fine
poplar tree, reduced a log of it to proper length and with
ax and adze hewed out a coffin for Rhodie s husband, hol
lowing it out into a trough and shaping the ends to fit
the corpse. The lid they made of clapboards. Placing a
coverlid inside the trough they laid the body of Alamander
upon it, made fast the lid, and bore him off to the burying
ground
"I knowed his time had come," Rhodie often repeated
the story, "when I found the white feather and when it
hovered near the door where Alamander went out that
morning/*
There were other signs.
All of a week after Alamander was buried Rhodie
claimed she had seen the mound above him rise and move
in ripples the full length of the log coffin in which he lay
buried. "Could be he s not resting easy/ the old woman
said to herself. "Could be the coverlid under his back is
wrinkled" In response to her question the departed Ala
mander is said to have assured his widow that it was his
sign of letting her know he was aware of her presence.
However, when curious neighbors accompanied Rhodie
to the burying ground, the mound remained still as a
rock. Rhodie said it was the sign that he had rather she
come to his grave alone.
Though there was never an eyewitness to the rippling
earth on the grave save that of Rhodie, whenever anyone
found a white feather about the house he remembered
what the old woman on Bear Fork of Puncheon Creek
had said, "It is a sign of death!"
7. Legend
CROCKETT S HOLLOW
WHEN Jasper Tipton married Talithie Burwell
and settled on Tipton s Fork In Crockett s Hollow,
folks said no one could ask for a better start. The Tiptons
had given the couple their house seat, a bedstead, a table.
Jasper had a team of mules he had swapped for a yoke of
oxen, and he had a cookstove that he had bought with
his own savings. A step stove it was, two caps below and
two higher up. The Burwells had seen to it that their
daughter did not go empty-handed to her man. She had
a flock tick, quilts, coverlids, and a cow. But, old Granny
Withers, a midwife from Caney Creek, sitting in the
chimney corner sucking her pipe the night of the wed
ding, vowed that all would not be well with the pair.
Hadn t a bat flitted into the room right over Talithie s
head when the elder was speaking the words that joined
the two in wedlock? Everyone knew the sign. Everyone
knew too that Talithie Burwell, with her golden hair and
blue eyes, had broken up the match between Jasper and
Widow Ashby s Sabrina. Yet Talithie and Jasper vowed
that all was fair in love and war. If a man s heart turned
cold toward a maid, it was none of his fault. There was
nothing to be done about it. You can t change a man s way
with woman, they said. It s writ in the Book.
180
Legend 181
And soon as Jasper had cast her off, Widow Ashby s
Sabrina took to her bed and there she meant to stay, so
she said, the rest of her life. Oruntil she got a sign that
would give her heart ease. Sabrina Ashby didn t mince
her words either. "I don t care what the sign may be,"
she said it right out, before Granny Withers. That tooth
less creature cackled and replied, "I m satisfied you re
knocking center."
Indeed Sabrina was telling the truth. She meant every
word of it. The jilted girl did not go to the wedding.
She didn t need to, as far as that was concerned, for old
Granny Withers came hobbling over the mountain fast
as her crooked old legs would carry her, and it in the dead
of winter, mind you, to tell Widow Ashby s Sabrina all
that had happened. How lovely fair the bride looked be
side her handsome bridegroom! "Eh law, they were a
doughty couple, Jasper and Talithie," Granny Withers
mouthed the words. She lifted a bony finger, "Yet, mark
my words, ill luck awaits the two. When the bat flew into
the house and dipped low over the fair bride s head, she
trembled like she had the agger and "
"The bat flew over her head?" Sabrina interrupted, eyes
glistening. "A bat it s blind stone blind!" the jilted girl
echoed gleefully. "There s a sign for you, Mistress Jasper
Tipton, to conjure with!" She let out a screech and then
a weird laugh that echoed through Crockett s Hollow.
She cast off the coverlid and in one bound was in the
middle of the floor, though she had lain long weeks pin
ing away. She clapped her hands high overhead like she
was shouting at meeting. Sabrina laughed again and again,
holding her sides.
Granny Withers thought the girl bewitched. So did
Widow Ashby and when the two tried to put a clabber
182 Blue Ridge Country
poultice on her head and sop her wrists in it, the jilted
Sabrina thrust them aside with pure mam strength. That
was the night of the wedding.
The days went by. Jasper and Talithie were happy and
content everyone knew.
Old Granny Withers in her dilapidated hut up the cove
watched and carried tales to Sabrina. The forsaken girl
listened as the old midwife told how she had seen the
two with arms about each other sitting in the doorway
in the evening many a time when their work was done.
Or how she had found them in loving embrace when by
chance she happened to pass along the far end of their
corn patch. "Under the big tree, mind you!" Granny
Withers scandalized beyond further speech clapped hand
to mouth, rolled her eyes in dismay. "Just so plum lustful
over each other they can t bide till night time. The mar
riage bed is the fitten place for such as that."
When the forsaken Sabrina heard such things she
burned with envy and jealousy. Secretly she tried to con
jure the pair, to no avail. That had been by wishing them
ill. She meant to try again. One day she went far into
the woods and caught a toad. She put it in a bottle. "There
you are, Mistress Talithie Tipton. I ve named the toad
for youF* she gloated as she made fast the stopper. "You ll
perish there. That s what you ll do. Didn t old Granny
Withers tell me how she worked such conjure on a false
true love in her young day? He died within twelve month.
Slipped off a high cliff!" Stealthily, in the dusk, Sabrina
made her way through the brush to a lonely spot far up
the hollow where the big rock hung. There she put the
bottle far back under a slab of stone.
She waited eagerly to hear some word of the wedded
couple.
Legend 183
One day, a few months later, old Granny Withers came
hobbling again over the mountain. "Jasper s woman is
heavy with child/* the toothless midwife grinned, moisten
ing her wrinkled lips with the tip of her tongue. "He s
done axed me to tend her."
Not even to Granny Withers did Sabrina tell of the
toad in the bottle. "If you ever tell to a living soul what
you ve done, that breaks the conjure," the old midwife
had warned long ago. So Sabrina kept a still tongue and
bided her time. Nor did she have long to wait
News traveled swiftly by word-of-mouth. And bad news
was fleetest of all.
At first Jasper and his wife were unaware of their babe s
fate, though Talithie had noticed one day, when the mid
wife carried the little one to the door where the sun was
shining brightly, that it did not bat an eye. Granny
Withers noticed too, but she said never a word. The
young mother kept her fear within her heart. She did not
speak of it to Jasper.
Two weeks later, after Granny Withers had gone,
Talithie was up doing her own work. Supper was over
and the young parents sat by the log fire. There was chill
in the air. The babe had whimpered in her bee-gum crib,
a crib that the proud young father had fashioned from a
hollowed log in which wild bees had once stored their
honey. Cut the log in two, did Jasper, scraped it clean,
and with the rounded side turned down it made as fine
a cradle as anyone could wish. With eager hands Talithie
placed in it, months before her babe was born, a clean
feather tick, no bigger than a pillow of their own bed-
Pieced a little quilt too, did the happy, expectant mother.
How contentedly the little one snuggled there even the
very first time Talithie put her in the crib! Rarely did
184 Blue Ridge Country
the child whimper, but this night small Margie was fret
ful. Talithie gathered her up and came back to the hearth,
crooning softly as she jolted to and fro in a straight chair.
The Tipton household, like most in Crockett s Hollow,
owned no such luxury as a rocker. But for all the croon
ing and jolting small Margie fretted, rubbed her small
fists into her eyes, and drew up her legs. "Might be colic,"
thought Talithie. "Babes have to fret and cry some, makes
them grow," offered the young father who continued to
whittle a butter bowl long promised. However, for all his
notions about it, Talithie was troubled. Never before had
she known the babe to be so fretful.
The log fire was burning low and in the dimness of the
room she leaned down to the hearth, picked up a pine
stick and lighted it. She held it close above the babe s
face. The small eyes were open wide and strangely staring.
Talithie passed the bright light to and fro before the
little one s gaze. But never once did the babe bat a lash.
"Lord God Almighty!" Talithie cried, dropping the
lighted pine to the floor. "Our babe is blind, Jasper!
Blind, I teU you! Stone blind!"
Jasper leaped to his feet. The wooden bowl, the knife,
clattered to the floor. The pine stick still burning lay
where it had fallen.
"Our babe can t be blind," he moaned, falling to his
knees. "Our helpless babe that s done no harm to any
living soul, our spotless pure babe can t be so afflicted!"
he sobbed bitterly, putting his arms about the two he
loved best in all the world.
The pine stick where Talithie dropped it burned deep
into the puncheon floor leaving a scar that never wore
away.
Again old Granny Withers hobbled over the mountain
Legend 185
as fast as she had the night she bore the news to Sabrina
about the bat that flew over the fair bride s head. "Tali-
thie s babe is blind stone blind, Sabrina Ashby! Do you
hear that?"
This time Widow Ashby s Sabrina did not cry out in
glee. She did not clap her hands above her head and laugh
wildly. The forsaken girl sank into a chair. Her face
turned deathly white, she stared ahead, unseeing.
It was a long time before she spoke. Then there was no
one there to hear. Granny Withers had scurried off in the
dark and Widow Ashby she was long since dead and gone.
"A toad in a bottle/ the frightened Sabrina whispered
and her voice echoed in the barren room, "a toad in a
bottle works a conjure. Ma s gone and now Talithle s babe
and Jasper s is plum stone blind." She swayed to and fro,
crying hysterically. Then she buried her face in the vise
of her hands, moaning, "Little Margie Tipton, your pretty
blue eyes won t never *tice no false true love away from
no fair maid. And you, Mistress Jasper Tipton, youll
have many a long year for to ruminate such things
through your own troubled mind."
Some shake their heads sympathetically, finger to brow,
when they speak of Widow Ashby s Sabrina living alone
in her ramshackle house far up at the head of Crockett s
Hollow. "A forsaken girl that holds grudge and works
conjure comes to be a sorry, sorry woman," they say.
Should you pass along that lonely creek and venture to
call a cheery "Hallo!" only a weird, cackling laugh, a
harsh "Begone" will echo in answer.
186 Blue Ridge Country
THE SILVER TOMAHAWK
In Garter County, Kentucky, there is a legend which
had its beginning long ago when Indian princesses roamed
the Blue Ridge, and pioneers hopes were high of finding
a lost silver mine said to be in caves close by.
Morg Tompert loved to tell the story. As long as he
lived the old fellow could be found on a warm spring day
sitting in the doorway of his little shack nearly hidden by
a clump of dogwoods. A shack of rough planks that clung
tenaciously to the mountain side facing Saltpeter, or as it
was sometimes called Swindle Cave. The former name
came from the deposit of that mineral, the latter from the
counterfeiters who carried on their nefarious trade within
the security of the dark cavern.
As he talked, Morg plucked a dogwood blossom that
peeped around the corner of his shack like a gossipy old
woman. "See that bloom?" He held it toward the visitor.
"Some say that a Indian princess who was slain by a
jealous chieftain sopped up her heart s blood with it and
that s how come the stains on the tip of the white flower.
There have been Indian princesses right here on this very
ground." Morg nodded slowly. "There s the empty tomb
of oneyes, and there s a silver mine way back yonder in
that cave. They were there long before them scalawags
were counterfeiting inside that cave. Did ever you hear of
Huraken?" he asked with childish eagerness, Morg needed
no urging. He went on to tell how this Indian warrior of
the Cherokee tribe loved a beautiful Indian princess
named Manuita:
"Men are all alike no matter what their color may be.
They want to show out before the maiden they love best.
Legend 187
Huraken did. He roved far away to find a pretty for her.
That is to say a pretty he could give the chieftain, her
father, in exchange for Manuita s hand. He must have
been gone a right smart spell for the princess got plum
out of heart, allowed he was never coming back and, bless
you, she leapt off a cliff. Killed herself! And all this time
her own true love was unaware of what she had done. He,
himself, was give up to be dead. But what kept him away
so long was he had come upon a silver mine. He dug the
silver out of the earth, melted it, and made a beautiful
tomahawk. He beat it out on the anvil and fashioned a
peace pipe on its handle. He must have been proud as a
peacock strutting in the sun preening its feathers. Huraken
was hurrying along, fleet as a deer through the forest, his
shiny tomahawk glistening in his strong right hand. The
gift for the chieftain in exchange for the princess bride.
All of a sudden he halted right off yon a little way. There
where the stony cliff hangs over. Right there before
Huraken s eyes at his feet lay the corpse of an Indian lass,
face downward. When he turned the face upwards, it was
the princess. Princess Manuita, his own true love. His
sorryful cry raised up as high as the heavens. Huraken
was plum beside himself with grief. He gathered up the
princess in his arms and packed her off into the cave. Her
tomb is right in there yet empty."
Old Morg paused for breath. "Huraken kept it secret
where he had buried his true love. He meant to watch over
her tomb all the rest of his life. Then the chieftain,
Manuita s father, got word of it somehow. He vowed to
his tribe that Huraken had murdered his daughter in
cold blood. So the chieftain and his tribe set out and cap
tured Huraken. They bound him hand and foot with
strips of buckskin out in the forest so that wild varmints
188 Blue Ridge Country
could come and devour his flesh and he couldn t help
himself. He d concealed his tomahawk next to his hide
under his heavy deerskin hunting coat. But the spirit of
the dead princess pitied her helpless lover. Come a big
rain that night that pelted him and soaked him plum to
the skin. The princess had prayed of the Rain God to
send that downpour. It soaked the buckskin through and
through that bound Huraken s hands and feet and he
wriggled loose. Many a long day and night he wandered
away off in strange forests, but all the time the spirit of
his true love, the princess, haunted him. He got no peace
till he came back and give himself up to the chieftain.
Only one thing the prisoner asked. Would they let him go
to the cave before they put him to death? Now the Chero-
kees are fearful of evil spirits. When they took Huraken
to the mouth of the cave they would go no farther. Evil
spirits are inside! the chieftain said, and the rest of his
tribe nodded and frowned. So Huraken went into the
dark cave alone. From that to this he s never been seen.
And the corpse of the Princess Manuita, it s gone too. Her
empty tomb is in yonder s cave. Not even a crumb of her
bones can be found."
Old Morg Tompert reflected a long moment. "I reckon
when Huraken packed the princess off somewhere else
her corpse come to be a heavy load. He dropped his silver
tomahawk that he had aimed to give the chieftain for his
daughter s hand. It lay for a hundred year or more I
reckon it s been that long right where it was dropped.
Off yonder in Smoky Valley under a high cliff some of
Pa s kinfolks found it. A silver tomahawk with a peace
pipe carved on its handle. Pa s own blood kin, by name,
Ben Henderson, found that silver tomahawk but no living
soul has ever found the lost silver mine. There s bound to
Legend 189
have been a mine, else Huraken could never have made
that silver tomahawk. Only one lorn white man knew
where it was. His name was Swift. But when he died, he
taken the secret o the silver mine to the grave with him.
Swift ought to a-told some of the womenfolks," declared
old Morg, still vexed at the man Swift s laxity though his
demise had occurred ages ago. "Swift ought to a-told some
of the womenfolks," old Morg repeated with finality.
BLACK CAT
From where old Pol Gentry lived on Rocky Fork of
Webb s Creek she could see far down into the valley of
Pigeon River and across the ridge on all sides. Her house
stood at the very top of Hawks Nest, the highest peak in
all the country around. Pol didn t have a tight house
like several down near the sawmill. She said it wasn t
healthy. Even when the owner of the portable mill offered
her leftover planks to cover her log house where the
daubin had Mien out, Pol refused. "The holes let the
wind in and the cat out," she d say, "and a body can t do
without either."
There was a long sleek cat, with green eyes and fur as
black as a crow, to be seen skulking in and out of Pol
Gentry s place. If it met a person as it prowled through
the woods, the cat darted off swift as a weasel into the
bush to hide away. Young folks on Rocky Fork of Webb s
Creek learned early to snatch off hat or bonnet if the
cat crossed their path, spit into it, and put it quickly on
again to break the witch of old Pol Gentry s black cat
But never were the two, Pol and the cat, seen together.
Truth to tell there were some among the old folks on
Rocky Fork who long had vowed that Pol and the cat
190 Blue Ridge Country
were one and the same. They declared Pol was a witch
in league with the Devil and that she could change her
self from woman to cat when the spell was strong enough
within her, when the evil spirits took a good strong hold
upon her. Moreover, Pol Gentry had but one tooth. One
sharp fang in the very front of her upper jaw. "A woman
is bound to be a witch if she has just one tooth, * folks
said and believed.
Pol Gentry was a frightful creature to look upon. She
had a heavy growth of hair, coal black hair all around
her mouth and particularly upon her upper lip. Her
beard was plain to be seen even when she turned in at a
neighbor s lane, long before she reached the door. Little
children at first sight of her ran screaming to hide their
faces in their mother s skirts.
There wasn t a child old enough to give ear to a tale
who hadn t heard of Pol Gentry s powers. How she had
bewitched Dan Eskew s little girl Flossie. It wouldn t have
happened, some said, if Flossie had spit in her bonnet
when the black cat crossed her path as she trooped through
the woods one day gathering wild flowers. That very eve
ning when she got back home Flossie sank on the door
step, the bonnet filled with wild flowers dropped from
her arm. She moaned pitifully, holding her head between
her hands and swaying to and fro. Right away her head
began to swell and by the time they got word to Seth
Eeling, the wizard doctor who lived in Mossy Bottom,
Flossie s head was twice its size. Indeed, Flossie Eskew s
head was as big as a full-grown pumpkin. The minute the
wizard clapped eyes on the child he spoke out.
"Beat up eggshells as fine as you can and give them to
this child in a cup of water. If she is bewitched this mix
ture will pass through her clear."
Legend 191
Orders were promptly obeyed. Flossie drained the cup
but no sooner had Flossie passed the powdered egg shells
than the witch left her. Her head went back to its natural
size. Nevertheless Flossie Eskew died that night,
"Didn t send for the wizard soon enough/ Seth Eeling
said.
Some believed in the powers of both, though neither
witch nor wizard would give the other a friendly look,
much less a word.
Pol Gentry was never downright friendly with any,
though she would hoe for a neighbor in return for some
thing to eat. "My place is too rocky to raise anything,"
she excused herself. And whatever was given her, Pol
would carry home then and there. "Them s fine turnips
you ve got, Mistress Darby," she said one day, and Sallie
Darby up and handed her a double handful of turnips.
Pol opened the front of her dirty calico mother-hubbard,
put the turnips inside against her dirty hide and tripped
off with them. Nor was Pol Gentry one to sit home at
tasks such as knitting or piecing a quilt But everyone
admitted there never was a better hand the country over
at raising pigs. So Pol swapped pigs for knitting. She had
to have long yarn stockings, mittens, a warm hood, for
her pigs had to be fed and tended winter and summer.
Others needed meat as much as Pol needed things to keep
her warm. Tillie Bocock was glad to knit stockings for
the old witch in return for a plump shoat. Tillie had
several mouths to feed. Her man was a no-account, who
spent his time fishing in summer and hunting in winter,
so that all the work fell to Tillie. Day by day she tended
and fed the shoaL It was black-and-white-spotted and fat
as a butterball, she and the little Bococks bragged.
"Another month and you can butcher that shoat." Old
192 Blue Ridge Country
Pol would stop in at Tillie s every time she went down
the mountain, eyeing the fat pig. Sometimes she would
put the palms of her dirty hands against her mouth and
rub the black hair back to this side and to that, then
she d stroke her chin as though her black beard hung far
down. Pol would make a clucking sound with her tongue.
"Wisht I was chawin* on a juicy sparerib or gnawin me a
greasy pig s knuckle right now/ she d say. Then Pol
would begin on a long tale of witchery: how she had seen
young husbands under the spell of her craft grow faith
less to young, pretty wives; how children gained power
over their parents through her and had their own will in
all things, even to getting title to house and land from
them before it should have been theirs. She told how
Luther Trumbo s John took with barking fits like a dog
and became a hunchback over night. "Why? Becaze he
made mauck of Pol Gentry, that s why!" She rubbed a
dirty hand around her hairy mouth and cackled glee
fully.
At that TiUie Bocock turned to her frightened children
huddled behind her chair. "Get you gone, the last one of
you out to the barn. Such witchy talk is not for young
ears."
Then old Pol Gentry scowled at Tillie and her sharp
eyes flashed and she puffed her lips in and out. Pol didn t
say anything but Tillie could see she was miffed and
there was in her sharp eyes a look that said, "Never mind,
Tillie Bocock, you ll pay for this."
Next morning Pol Gentry was up bright and early,
rattling the pot on the stove and grumbling to herself.
"I ll show Tillie Bocock a thing or two. So I will. Sending
her young ones out of my hearing."
Far down the ridge Tillie Bocock was up early too, for
Legend 193
already the sun was bright and there was corn to hoe.
Tillie and the children had washed the dishes, and she
had carried out the soapy dishwater with cornbread scraps
mixed in it and poured it in the trough for the pig.
"Spotty," they called their pet. The Bococks had no planks
with which to make a separate pen for the spotted pig
so they kept its trough in a corner of the chicken lot.
"Mazie, you and Saphroney go fetch a bucket of cold
water for Spotty," Tillie called to her two eldest. "A pig
likes a cold drink now and then same as we do." So off
the children went with the cedar bucket to the spring.
When they returned they poured some of the water into
the dishpan and Spotty sucked it up greedily while they
hurried to pour the rest into the mudhole where the pig
liked to wallow.
The sun caked the mud on the pig s sides and legs as
it lay grunting contentedly in the chicken yard.
And when Tillie and the children came in from hoeing
corn at dinner time Spotty still lay snoozing in the sun.
An hour later they returned to toss a handful of turnip
greens into the pig. But Spotty didn t even grunt or get
up, for on its side was a sleek black cat. A cat with green
eyes stretched full length working its claws into the pig s
muddy sides, now with the front paws, now with the hind
ones.
The children screamed and stomped a foot. "Scat! Scat!"
they cried but the black cat only turned its fierce eyes
toward them.
Hearing their screams Tillie came running out. She
fluttered her apron at the cat to scare it away but it only
snarled, showing its teeth, lifting its bristling whiskers.
Then Tillie picked up a stone and threw it as hard as
she could, striking the cat squarely between the eyes. It
194 Blue Ridge Country
screamed like a human, Tillie told afterwards. Loud and
wild it screamed, and leaping off the pig it darted off
quick as a flash.
\Vhen the cat reached the cliff halfway up the moun
tain that led toward Pol Gentry s it turned around and
looked back. With one paw uplifted it wiped its face for
there was blood pouring out of the cut between its shin
ing green eyes. It twitched its mouth till the black fur
stood up.
"Come, get up, Spotty!" Tillie and the children coaxed
the pig. "Here s more dishwater slop for you. Here s some
cornbread!"
Slowly the pig got to its knees, then to its feet. It grunted
once only and fell over dead.
After that old Pol Gentry wasn t seen for days. But
when Tillie Bocock did catch sight of her, Pol turned off
from the footpath and hurried away. Even so Tillie saw
the deep gash in Pol s forehead oozing blood right be
tween her eyes. She saw Pol Gentry s mouth widen angrily
and the black hair about it twitch like that ~of a snarling
cat, as she slunk away.
THE DEER WOMAN AND THE FAWN
Amos Tingley, a bachelor, and a miser as well, lived
in Laurel Hollow. Nearby was a salt lick for deer. Often
he saw them come there a few at a time, lick the salt, and
scamper away. There were two he noticed in particular,
a mother and its fawn. They had come nearer than the
salt lickinto his garden more than once and trampled
what they did not like, or nibbled to the very ground
things that suited their taste, vegetables that Amos had
toiled to plant and grow. He didn t want to harm the
Legend 195
animals if it could be helped so Amos thought to make
a pet of the fawn. \Vhen a boy he had had a pet fawn,
carried it in his arms. He even brought it into the house
and when it grew older the little creature followed at his
heels like a dog. He reached a friendly hand toward this
fawn in his garden but it kicked up its heels and fairly
flew down the garden path. However, the mother, watch
ing her chance when Amos had returned to the house, led
her fawn into the garden again and together they ate their
fill of the choicest green things.
It annoyed Amos Tingley no little. He determined to
put a stop to it. One evening he greased his old squirrel
rifle. He took lead balls out of the leather pouch that
hung on the wall, rolled them around in the palm of his
hand, and wondered when his chance would come to use
them. As he sat turning the thoughts over in his mind
pretty Audrey Billberry and her little girl, Tinie, came
along the road. Audrey was a widow. Had been since
Tinie was six months old. Some wondered how she got
along. But Audrey Billberry was never one to complain
and if neighbors went there she always urged them to
stay and eat. If it was winter, there was plenty of rabbit
stew and turnips and potatoes, or squirrel and quail.
Audrey loved wild meat. "It s cleaner," she d say, "and
sweeter. Sweet meats make pretty looks." Audrey smiled
and showed her dimples and little Tinie patted her
mother s hand and looked up admiringly into her face.
Then off the two would skip through the woods to gather
greens or berries, chestnuts or wild turkey eggs, whatever
the season might bring.
Sometimes they went hand in hand, Audrey and the
child, past Amos Tingley *$ place.
"Good day, to you," pretty Audrey Billberry would
196 Blue Ridge Country
call out and Time would say the same. "How goes it with
you today, good neighbor?"
"Well enough," Amos answered, "and better still if I
can get rid of that pestering deer and her fawn. The two
have laid waste my garden patch. See yonder!" he pointed
with the squirrel rifle. "And it won t be good for the two
the next time they come nibbling around here!"
Pretty Audrey Billberry gripped little Time s hand
until the child squealed and hopped on one foot. They
looked at each other, then at the gun. Fright came into
their eyes. Audrey tried to laugh lightly. "When you kill
that deer be sure to bring me a piece, neighbor Tingley,"
she said, as unconcerned as you please, and away she went
with the little girl at her side. When they reached home
Audrey Billberry turned the wood button on the door
and flung back her head. "Kill a deer and her fawn! There
is no fear, Time. Why" she scoffed "Amos Tingley s
got only lead to load his rifle. I saw." She put her hands
to her sides and laughed and danced around the room.
"Lead can t kill a deer and her fawn. It takes silver! Silver!
Do you hear that, Tinie? Silver hammered and molded
round to load the gun. And when, I d like to know, would
skinflint Amos Tingley, the miser, ever destroy a silver
coin by pounding it into a ball to load a gun? There s
nothing to fear. Rest easy, Tinie. Besides all living crea
tures must eat. It is their right. Only silver, remember,
not lead, can harm the deer. A miser will keep his silver
and let his garden go!" She caught little Tinie by both
hands and skipped to and fro across the floor, saying over
and over, "Only silver can harm the deer."
The wind caught up her words and carried them
through the trees, across the ridge into Laurel Hollow.
While Audrey and Tinie skipped and frolicked and
Legend 197
chanted, "Only silver can harm the deer/ Amos Tingley,
the miser, over in Laurel Hollow was busy at work, He
took a silver coin from the leather poke in his pocket
and hammered it flat on the anvil in his barn. Thin as
paper he hammered it until he could roll it easily between
thumb and finger. Then around and around he rolled it
between his palms until there was a ball as round and as
firm as ever was made with a mold. Amos put it in his
rifle.
The next morning when he went out to work in his
garden there was scarcely a head of cabbage left The
bunch beans he had been saving back and the cut-short
beans had been plucked and the row of sweet corn which
he had planted so carefully along the fence-row had been
stripped to the last roasting ear. He stooped down to look
at the earth. "Footprints of the deer and the fawn, with
out a doubt. But she must have worn an apron or carried
a basket to take away so much." Amos shook his head in
perplexity, Then he hurried back to the house to get his
gun.
"Right here do I wait." He braced himself in the door
way, back to the jam, knees jackknifed, gun cocked. "Here
do I wait until I catch sight of that doe and her fawn."
It wasn t long till the two appeared on a nearby ridge,
pranking to and fro. Into the forest they scampered, then
out again, frisking up their hind feet, then standing still
as rocks and looking down at Amos Tingley in his door
way.
Then Amos lifted his gun, pulled the trigger.
The fawn darted away but the deer fell bleeding with a
bullet in the leg.
"Let her bleed! Bleed till there s not a drop of blood
left in her veins and my silver coin is washed back to my
198 Blue Ridge Country
own hands!" That was the wish of Amos Tingley, the
miser. He went back into the house and put his gun in
the corner.
When darkness came little Tinie Billberry stood sob
bing at Amos Tingley s door. "Please to come," she
pleaded. "My mother says she ll die if you don t. She
wants to make amends!"
"Amends?" gasped Amos Tingley. "Amends for what?"
But Tinie had dashed away in the darkness.
When Amos reached pretty Audrey Billberry s door,
he found her pale in the candlelight, her ankle shattered
and bleeding. The foot rested in a basin.
"See what you ve done, Amos Tingley." The pretty
widow lifted tear-dimmed eyes, while Tinie huddled
shyly behind her. "A pitcher of water, quick, Tinie, to
wash away the blood!"
As the child poured the water over the bleeding foot,
Amos heard something fall into the basin. He caught the
flash of silver. Amos stood speechless.
In the basin lay the silver ball the miser had made from
a coin.
"Never tell!" cried pretty Audrey Billberry, her dark
eyes starting from the bloodless face. "Never tell and I
promise, I promise and so does Tinie see we promise
together."
The child had put down the pitcher and came shyly
to rest her head upon her mother s shoulder, her small
hand in Audrey s.
"We promise/* they spoke together, "never, never
again to bother your garden!"
They kept their word all three, Amos Tingley and
pretty Audrey Billberry and little Tinie. But somebody
Legend 199
told, for the tale still lives in Laurel Hollow of the miser
and the deer woman and the little fawn.
GHOST OF DEVIL ANSE
Near the village of Omar, Logan County, in the hills
of West Virginia there is a little burying ground that
looks down on Main Island Creek. It is a family burying
ground, you soon discover when you climb the narrow
path leading to the sagging gate in the rickety fence that
encloses it. There are a number of graves, some with head
stones, some without. But one grave catches the eye, for
above it towers a white marble statue. The statue of a
mountain man, you know at once by the imposing height,
the long beard, the sagging breeches stuffed into high-
topped boots. Drawing nearer, you read the inscription
upon the broad stone base upon which the statue rests:
CAPT. ANDERSON HATFIELD
and below the names of his thirteen children:
JOHNSON
WM. A.
ROBERT L.
NANCY
ELLIOTT R.
MARY
ELIZABETH
EUAS
TROY
JOSEPH D.
ROSE
WILLIS E.
TENNIS
200 Blue Ridge Country
You lift your eyes again to the marble statue. If you
knew him in life, you ll say, "This is a fine likeness-and
a fine piece of marble."
"His children had it done in Italy," someone offers the
information.
"So," you say to yourself, "this is the grave of Devil
Anse Hatfield."
You ve seen all there is to see. You re ready to go, if
you are like hundreds of others who visit the last resting
place of the leader of the Hatfield-McCoy feud. But, if
you chance to tarry say, in the fall when fogs are heavy
there in the Guyan Valley, through which Main Island
Creek flows you may see and hear things strangely un
accountable.
Close beside the captain s grave is another. On the stone
is carved the name Levisa Chafin Hatfield. If you were
among the many who attended her funeral you will re
member how peaceful she looked in her black burying
dress she d kept so long for, the occasion. Again you will
see her as she lay in her coffin, hands primly folded on
the black frock, the frill of lace on the black bonnet fram
ing the careworn face. You look up suddenly to see a
mountain woman in a somber calico frock and slat bon
net. She is putting new paper flowers, to take the place of
the faded ones, in the glass-covered box between the grave
of Devil Anse and the mother of his children.
"You best come home with me," she invites with true
hospitality, after an exchange of greetings. You learn that
Molly claims kin to both sides, being the widow of a Hat-
field and married to a McCoy, and at once you are dis
armed.
That night as you sit with Molly in the moonlight in
the dooryard of her shack, a weather-beaten plank house
Legend 201
with a clapboard roof and a crooked stone chimney, she
talks of life in the West Virginia hills. "There s a heap
o* things happens around this country that are mighty
skeery." Suddenly in the gloaming a bat wings overhead,
darts inside the shack. You can hear it blundering around
among the rafters. An owl screeches off in the hollow some
where. "Do you believe in ghosts and haynts?" There are
apprehension and fear in Molly s voice.
Presently the owl screeches dolefully once more and the
bat wheels low overhead. A soft breeze stirs the pawpaw
bushes down by the fence row. "Did you hearn something
mourn like, just then?" Molly, the widow of a Hatfield
and wife of a McCoy, leans forward.
If you are prudent you make no answer to her questions.
"Nothing to be a-feared of, I reckon. The ghosts of them
that has been baptized they won t harm nobody. I ve
heard Uncle Dyke Garrett say as much many s the time."
The woman speaks with firm conviction.
A moth brushes her cheek and she straightens suddenly.
The moon is partly hidden behind a cloud; even so by
its feint light you can see the clump of pawpaw bushes,
and beyond the outline of the rugged hills. Farther off
in the burying ground atop the ridge the marble figure of
the leader of the Hatfields rises against the half-darkened
sky.
At first you think it is the sound of the wind in the
pines far off in the hollow, then as it moves toward the
burying ground it changes to that of low moaning voices.
You feel Molly s arm trembling against your own.
1 "Listen!" she whispers fearfully, all her courage gone.
"It s Devil Anse and his boys. Look yonder!" she tugs at
your sleeve "See for yourself they re going down to the
waters of baptism!"
202 Blue Ridge Country
Following the direction of the woman s quick trembling
hand you strain forward.
At first there seems to be a low mist rolling over the
burying ground and then suddenly, to your amazement,
the mist or cloud dissolves itself into shafts or pillars of
the height of the white figure of Devil Anse above the
grave. They form in line and now one figure, the taller,
moves ahead of all the rest. Six there were following the
leader. You see distinctly as they move slowly through the
crumbling tombstones, down the mountain side toward
the creek.
"Devil Anse and his boys/* repeats the trembling Molly,
"going down into the waters of baptism. They ever do of
a foggy night in the falling weather. And look yonder I
There s the ghost too of Uncle Dyke Garrett a-waiting at
the water s edge. He s got the Good Book opened wide in
his hand/*
Whether it is the giant trunk of a tree with perhaps a
leafless branch extended, who can say? Or is nature play
ing a prank .with your vision? But, surely, in the eerie
moonlight there seems to appear the figure of a man with
arm extended, book in hand, waiting to receive the seven
phantom penitents moving slowly toward the water s edge.
After that you don t lose much time in being on your
way. And if anyone should ask you -what of interest is to
be seen along Main Island Creek, if you are prudent you ll
answer, "The marble statue of Gapt. Anderson Hatfield."
And if you knew him in life you ll add, "And a fine like
ness it is too/*
Legend 203
THE WINKING CORPSE
On the night of June 22, 1887, the bodies of four dead
men lay wrapped in sheets on cooling boards in the musty
sitting room of an old boarding house in Morehead,
Rowan County, Kentucky. Only the bullet-shattered faces,
besmeared with blood, were exposed. Their coffins had
not yet arrived from the Blue Grass. No friend or kins
man watched beside the bier that sultry summer night;
they had prudently kept to their homes, for excitement
ran high over the battle that had been fought that day in
front of the old hostelry which marked, with the death of
the four, the end of the Martin-Tolliver feud.
While the bodies lay side-by-side in the front part of
the shambling house, there sat in the kitchen, so the story
goes, a slatternly old crone peeling potatoes for supper-
should the few straggling boarders return with an appe
tite, now that all the shooting was over.
It was the privilege of old women like Phronie in the
mountains of Kentucky to go unmolested and help out as
they felt impelled in times of troubles such as these be
tween the Martins and Tollivers.
The place was strangely quieL Indeed the old boarding
house was deserted. For those who had taken the law in
their own hands that day in Rowan County had called a
meeting at the courthouse farther up the road. The citi
zenry of the countryside, save kin and friend of the slain
feudists, had turned out to attend.
"Nary soul to keep watch with the dead," Phronie com
plained under her breath. "It s dark in yonder. Dark and
still as the grave, A body s got to have light. How else can
they see to make it to the other world?" She paused to
204 Blue Ridge Country
sharpen her knife on the edge of the crock, glancing cau
tiously now and then toward the door of the narrow hall
way that led to the room where the dead men lay.
The plaintive call of a whippoorwill far off beyond
Triplett Creek, where one of the men had been killed that
day, drifted into the quiet house.
"It s a sorry song for sorry times," murmured old
Phronie, "and it ought to tender the heart of them that s
mixed up in these troubles. No how, whosoever s to blame,
the dead ort not to be forsaken,"
There was a sound behind her. Phronie turned to see
the hall door opening slowly. "Who s there?" she called*
But no one answered. The door opened wider. But no one
entered.
"It s a sign/* the old woman whispered. "Well, no one
can ever say Phronie forsaken the dead." It was as though
the old crone answered an unspoken command. She put
down the crock of potatoes and the paring knife. Wiping
her hands on her apron, Phronie took the oil lamp, with
its battered tin reflector, from the wall. "Can t no one ever
say I forsaken the dead," she repeated, "nor shunned a
sign or token. The dead s got to have light same as the
living."
Holding the lamp before her, she passed slowly along
the narrow hall on to the room where the dead men lay
wrapped in their sheets. She drew a chair from a corner
and climbed upon it and hung the lamp above the mantel.
It was the chair on which Craig Tolliver, alive and boast
ful and fearless, had sat that morning when she had
brought him hot coffee and cornbread while he kept an
eye out for the posse, the self-appointed citizens who later
killed the Tolliver leader and his three companions.
Legend 205
The flickering light of the oil lamp fell upon the ghastly
faces of the dead men.
For a moment the old woman gazed at the still forms.
Then suddenly her glance fixed itself upon the face of
Craig Tolliver.
Slowly the lashes of Craig s right eye moved ever so
slightly.
Phronie was sure of it. She gripped the back of the chair
on which she stood to steady herself, for now the lid of
the dead man s eye twitched convulsively. As the trem
bling old woman gaped, the eye of the slain feudist opened
and shut. Not once, but three times, quick as a wink.
"God-a-mighty!" shrieked Phronie, "he ain t dead! Craig
Tolliver ain t dead!" She leaped from the chair and ran
fast as her crooked old limbs would carry her, shrieking as
she went, "Craig Tolliver ain t dead!"
Some say it was just the notion of an old woman gone
suddenly raving crazy, though others, half believing, still
tell the story of the winking corpse.
THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN GABLES
About halfway between the thriving, up-to-date, elec
trically lighted City of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky,
with its million-dollar steel mills, and Grayson, the county
seat of Carter County, Kentucky, there stands on the hill
side a few rods from the modem highway U. S. 60, a little
white cottage with green gables.
Within a mile or so of the place unusual road signs catch
your eye. White posts, each surmounted by a white open
scroll. There are ten of them, put there, no doubt, by some
devoted pilgrim. There is one for each of the Ten Com
mandments. You read carefully one after the other. The
206 Blue Ridge Country
one nearest the point where you turn off on a dirt road
that leads to the white house with the green gables reads
Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother.
You leave your car at the side of the dirt road near
U. S. 60, and go on foot the rest of the way.
You wonder, as you look at the beauty of the well-kept
lawn, the carefully planted hedge and cedars, the step
stone walk that leads up the sloping hill to the door, at
the silence of the place. As you draw nearer, you wonder
at the uncurtained windows, neat, small-paned casements
with neither shade nor frill.
You learn that the place has stood untenanted for years.
Truth to tell it has never been occupied. Some call it the
haunted house with the green gables.
Some will tell you there is a shattered romance behind
the empty, green-gabled house. Others contend it is ten
anted. They have seen a lovely woman, lamp in hand,
move about from room to room through the quiet night
and stand sometimes beside the window up under the
green gable that looks toward the west. She seems to be
watching and waiting, they say. But when the day dawns
woman and lamp vanish into thin air.
Others will tell you that an eccentric old man built the
house for his parents long since dead. He believes, so they
say this old eccentric man living somewhere in the Ken
tucky hills (they are not sure of the exact location) that
his parents will return. Not as an aged couple, feeble and
bent as they died, but in youth, happy and healthful. This
"eccentric" son himself now stooped with age, with silver
hair and faltering step, built the pretty white house that
his parents might have beauty in a dwelling such as they
Legend 207
never knew In their former life on earth. The old fellow
himself, so the story goes, makes many a nocturnal visit to
the dream house, hoping to find his parents returned and
happily living within its paneled walls.
There are all sorts of stories, varying in their nature
according to the distance of their origin from the green-
gabled house.
Curious people have come all the way from the Pacific
Coast to see it, from New England and Maine, from
Canada and Utah.
As the years go by the legend grows.
"Oh, yes, I ve seen the haunted house with the green
gables," some will say, glowing with satisfaction. "And
they do say the eccentric old man who built it for his par
ents has silent, trusty Negro servants dressed in spotless
white who stand behind the high-backed chair of the
master and mistress at the table laden with gleaming silver
and a sumptuous feast The old man firmly believes his
parents will return!"
What with the increasing stories you decide to take a
look for yourself. I did, accompanied by a newsman, and
a photographer.
Nothing like getting proof of the pudding.
Out you go, under cover of darkness, equipped with
flashlights and flash bulbs. A haunted house, you calcu
late, will be much more intriguing by night. Stealthily
you draw near. You peer into the windows, the uncur
tained windows, in breathless awe prepared to see the lady
with the lamp floating from room to room, hoping to
glimpse the spectral couple seated at table in the high-
paneled dining hall of which you have heard so many
tales. Tales of gleaming silver, white-clad Negro servants
208 Blue Ridge Country
bowing with deference before the master and mistress o
the green-gabled house.
Through the uncurtained windows you gape wide-eyed.
Instead of the scene you expected, there looms before your
eyes plunder of all sorts tossed about helter-skelter: sec
tions of broken bookcases, old tables, musty books, broken-
down chairs.
You are about to retreat in utter disgust when you hear
the sound of footsteps on the cobblestone walk that leads
around the house. The sound draws nearer.
The wary photographer pulls his flashlight. Its bright
beam plays upon the stone walk, catching first in its
lighted circle the feet of a man. The light plays upward
quickly. It holds now in its bright orb the smiling face of
a man. A middle-aged man with pleasant blue eyes.
"could we see the owner of this place?" stammers
the reporter.
"You re looking at him, sir!" the fellow replies courte
ously. "What can I do for you?" It is a pleasant voice with
an accent that is almost Harvard.
"Who who are you?" the reporter stammers.
"Hedrick s my name. Ray Hedrick! What s yours?"
When the uninvited visitors have identified themselves
the owner invites you most graciously to take a seat on the
doorstep.
You learn that this "eccentric old man/ of whom you
have heard such ridiculously fantastic tales, is and has
been for a number of years telegraph operator for the
Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad at their little wayside sta
tion, Kilgore. It is within a few miles of the mill town of
thriving Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, and the county
seat of Carter County. The little railroad station is within
a stone s throw, as the crow flies, of "the haunted house."
Legend 209
"Pleasant weather we are having," the owner observes
casually-
"Yes," the reporter replies reluctantly, "but this house-
here" the reporter is obviously peeved for having been
snipe-hunting -"what about this house?"
"Well," drawls the owner tolerantly, "a house can t help
what s been told about it, can it?"
"But how did the story get started about it being
haunted?" the reporter is persistent.
The owner jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direc
tion of U. S. 60. "Is that your car parked over there?"
There is in his tone that which impels you to stand not
on the order of your going. You go at once annoyed at
being no nearer the answer than when you came.
And still the curious continue to motor miles and miles
to see the haunted house with the green gables.
8. Singing on the Mountain Side
THOUGH there were and are people in the Blue
Ridge Country who, like Jilson Setters, the Singin*
Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, can neither read nor write,
such obstacles have meant no bar to their poetic bent.
They sing with joy and sorrow, with pride and pleasure,
of the scene about them, matching their skill with that of
old or young who boast of book learning.
OF LANI&gt; AND RIVER
APPALACHIA
Clothed in her many hues of green.,
Far Appalachia rises high
And takes a robe of different hue
To match the seasons passing by.
Her summits crowned by nature s handy
With grass-grown balds for all to see,
Her towering rocks and naked cliffs
Hid by some overhanging tree.
In early spring the Maple dons
Her bright red mantle overnight;
The Beech is clad in dainty tan,
The Sarvis in a robe of white.
210
Singing on the Mountain Side 211
The Red Bud in profusion blooms
And rules the hills a few short days,
And Dogwoods with their snowy white
Are mingled with its purple blaze.
High on the frowning mountain side
Azaleas bloom like tongues of flame,
The Laurel flaunts her waxy pink,
And Rhododendrons prove their fame.
Then comes the sturdy Chestnut tree
With plumes like waving yellow hair,
And Wild Grapes blossom at their will
To scent the glorious mountain air.
But when the frost of autumn falls,
Like many other fickle maids,
She lays aside her summer robes
And dons her gay autumnal shades.
Qh 3 Appalachia^ loved by all!
Long may you reign, aloof, supreme^
In royal robes of nature s hues,
A monarch proud a mountain Queen.
Martha Creech
BIG SANDY RIVER
Big Sandy, child of noble birth,
Majestically you roll along,
True daughter of the Cumberlands^
With heritage of wealth and song.
Free as the hills from whence you came f
In folklore and tradition bound,
212 Blue Ridge Country
You seek the valleys deep and wide,
With frowning forests girded round.
Descendants of a stalwart breed
And fed by nature s lavish hand.
You carry on your bosom broad
The riches of a virgin land.
When ringing ax of pioneers
The silence of the forests broke.
Upon your rising crest you bore
The poplar and the mighty oak.
The push boat launched by brawny arms
And filled with treasure from the earth
Has drifted on your current strong
From out the hills that gave you birth.
And steamboats loaded to the hold
You swept upon your swelling tide 3
Til fruits of sturdy, mountain toil
Were scattered out both far and wide.
The Dew Drop plowed your mighty waves.
From Catlettsburg to old Pike Town.,
To bring her loads of manmade gifts
And carry homespun products down.
And Market Boy, that far-famed craft,,
Churned through the foam, her holds to fill,
And proudly reared her antlered head
A trophy rare of mountain skill.
D. Preston
Singing on the Mountain Side 213
OLD TIME WATERFRONT
Come all you old-time rivermen
And go along with me,
Let s sing a song and give a cheer
For the days that used to be.
Let s wander down to Catlettsburg
And look upon the tide.
We ll mourn the changes time has made
There by the river side.
Gone is the old-time waterfront
That rang with joy and mirth,
And known throughout a dozen states
As "the wettest spot on earth."
And Damron s famed Black Diamond,
The logger s paradise,,
Where whiskey flowed like water
And timbermen swapped lies.
Here Big Wayne ruled in splendor;
His right, none would deny.
And Little Wayne was always there
To serve the rock and rye.
And Big Wayne never failed a friend,
Or stopped to chat or lie.
And no one entering his doors
Was known to leave there dry.
And many a time some timberman
Would land himself in jail,
But Big Wayne always lent a hand,
And went the wretch s bail.
214 Blue Ridge Country
Some of the buildings still are there,
Along the old-time ways.
Silent and dark their windows stare
Gray ghosts of bygone days.
No sound of merriment or song,
No dancing footsteps fall;
The days of fifty years ago,,
Are gone beyond recall.
So to Big Wayne and Little Wayne,
Big Sandy s pride and boast,
And to the old-time waterfront,
Let s drink a farewell toast.
While to the old-time timbermen,
This song we ll dedicate,
Who fought their battles with their fists,
And took their whiskey straight.
Goby Preston
WEST VIRGINIA
There is singing in the mountain where the sturdy hill
folk meet,
There is singing in the valleys where the days are warm
and sweety
There is singing in the cities where the crowds of workers
throng^
Wherever we meet, no day is complete, for West Vir
ginians without a song.
West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of
song,
Singing on the Mountain Side 215
West Virginia, hear the singing of the crystal mountain
streams.
Songs of joy and songs of power to fulfill man s mightiest
dreams,
West Virginia, hear the singing of thy shadowed forest
trees,
Holding the winds, holding the floods, so that thy sons
may be at ease.
West Virginia, land of beauty, West Virginia, land of song.
Esther Eugenia Dams
SKYUNE DRIVE
The Skyline Drive is not a road
To bring you near the skies
Where you can sit and gather clouds
That flit before your eyes,
Or jump upon a golden fleece
And sail to paradise
But it is a super-mountain road
Where you can feast your eyes
Upon the beauties of the world
The Lord God gave to man
For his enjoyment and his use;
Improve it if you can.
The builders of this Skyline Drive
Have filed no patent right
That they improved upon God s plan,
Nor have more power and might;
But they have seen His handiwork.
This panoramic wew f
Have paved this road to ease the load
Of all the world and you.
216 Blue Ridge Country
This is akin to hallowed ground,
A sacred beauty shrine;
Its fame has traveled all around;
It now is yours and mine.
There s little points of vantage views.
Where you can see afar
Compare the beauty with that land
That stands with "Gates Ajar"
The people who have given much
To save this precious shrine
Must surely all be friends of God
And friends of yours and mine.
George A. Barker
FEUD
THE LOVE OF ROSANNA MC COY
Come and listen to my story
Of fair Rosanna McCoy.
She loved young Jonse Hatfield^
Old Devil Anse s boy.
But the McCoys and Hatfields
Had long engaged in strife,
And never the son of a Hatfield
Should take a McCoy to wife.
But when they met each other,
On Blackberry Creek y they say,
She was riding behind her brother.
When Jonse came along that way.
"Who is that handsome fellow?"
She asked young Tolbert McCoy*
Singing on the Mountain Side 217
Said he, "Turn your head, sister,
That s Devil Anse s boyf*
But somehow they met each other,
And it grieved the Hat fie Ids sore;
While Randall, the young girl s father^
Turned his daughter from the door.
It was down at old Aunt Betty s
They were courting one night, they say,
When down came Rosanna s brothers
And took young Jonse away.
Rosanna s heart was heavy,
For she hoped to be his wife,
And well she knew her brothers
Would take his precious life.
She ran to a nearby pasture
And catching a horse by the mane,
She mounted and rode like a soldier,
With neither saddle nor rein.
Her golden hair streamed behind her,
Her eyes were wild and bright,
As she urged her swift steed forward
And galloped away in the night.
Straight to the Hatfields stronghold^
She rode so fearless and brave,
To tell them that Jonse was in danger
And beg them his life to save.
And the Hatfields rode in a body.
They saved young Jonse s life;
But never., they said* a Hatfield
Should take a McCoy to wife.
218 Blue Ridge Country
But the feud is long forgotten
And time has healed the sting,
As little Bud and Melissy
This song of their kinsmen sing.
No longer it is -forbidden
That a fair-haired young McCoy
Shall love her dark-eyed neighbor
Or marry a Hatfield boy.
And the people still remember,
Though she never became his bride&gt;
The love of these young people
And Rosanna s midnight ride.
Co by Preston
LEGEND
THE ROBIN S RED BREAST
Through the southern mountains the Robin is often
called the "Christ Bird" because of this legend. It is also
called "Love Bird."
The Savior hung upon the cross,
His body racked with mortal pain;
The blood flowed from His precious wounds
And sweat dropped from His brow like rain.
A crown of thorns was on His head;
The bitter cup He meekly sips;
His life is ebbing fast away y
A prayer upon His blessed lips.
No mercy found He anywhere^
He said, "My Father knoweth best"
Singing on the Mountain Side 219
A little bird came fluttering down
And hovered near his bleeding breast.
It fanned His brow with gentle wings,
Into the cup it dipped its beak;
And gazed in pity while He hung
And bore His pain so calm and meek.
At last the bird it flew away
And sought the shelter of its nest;
Its feathers dyed with crimson stain.
The Savior s blood upon its breast.
The lowly robin , so tis said,
That comes to us in early spring,
Is that which hovered near the cross
And wears for aye that crimson stain.
Martha Creech
JENNIE WYIIE
Thomas Wiley, husband of Jennie Sellards Wylie, was
a native of Ireland. They lived on Walker s Creek in what
is now Tazewell County, Virginia. She was captured by
the Indians in 1790. Her son Adam was sometimes called
Adam Pre Yard Wiley.
Among the hills of old Kentucky,
When homes were scarce and settlers few,
There lived a man named Thomas Wylie,
His wife and little children two.
They left their home in old Virginia,
This youthful pair so brave and strong.
And built a cabin in the valley
Where fair Big Sandy flows along.
220 Blue Ridge Country
Poor Thomas left his home one morning,
He kissed his wife and children dear;
He little knew that prowling Indians
Around his home were lurking near.
They waited in the silent woodland
Till came the early shades of night;
Poor Jennie and her young brother
Were seated by the fireside bright.
They peeped inside the little cabin
And saw the children sleeping there.
These helpless ones were unprotected
And Jennie looked so white and fair.
They came with tomahawks uplifted
And gave the war whoop fierce and wild;
Poor Jennie snatched her nursing baby;
They killed her brotherher oldest child.
They took poor Jennie through the forest
And while they laughed in fiendish glee,
A redskin took the baby from her
And dashed out its brains against a tree.
They traveled down the Sandy valley
Until they reached Ohio s shore;
They told poor Jennie she would never
See home or husband any more.
For two long years they kept her captive^
And one dark night she stole away,
And many miles she put behind her
Before the dawning of the day.
Straight for home the brave woman headed
As on her trail the redskins came;
Singing on the Mountain Side 221
The creek down which she fled before them
To this day bears poor Jennie s name.
She reached the waters of Big Sandy
And plunged within the swollen tide.
The thriving little town of Auxier
Now stands upon the other side.
Her husband welcomed her, though bearing
A child sired by an Indian bold;
He proudly claimed the stalwart Adam,,
Whose blood descendants are untold.
Luke Burchett
MOUNTAIN PREACHER
When the Sabbath day is dawning in the mountains^
And the air is filled with bird song sweet and clear,
Once again I think of him who lives in spirit,
Though his voice has silent been for many a year*
And the music of the simple prayer he uttered
Seems to echo from the highest mountain peak,
And the people still respect the holy teaching
Of that mountain preacher, Zepheniah Meek.
I can see him there upon the wooded hillside ^
While between two giant Trees of Heaven he stood,
And the blue skies formed a canopy above them,
As befitting one so humble, wise and good.
And he reads of how the Tree of Life is blooming,
From the thumbworn leaves of God s own book of lave,
While the wind sweeps gently through the Trees of
Heaven
And they seem to whisper softly up above,
222 Blue Ridge Country
Oh, your name still lives among Big Sandy s people.
Though your earthly form is molding neath the sod;
May your memory linger in their hearts forever,
While your spirit rests in peace at home with God.
D. Preston
CHURCH IN THE MOUNTAINS
This was composed by a little girl in Rowan County,
Kentucky, after she had been to church in the mountains
on Christy Creek in that county in 1939.
Have you been to church in the mountains?
*Tis a wonderful place to go,
Out beneath the spreading branches
Where the grass and violets grow.
Hats hang around on the trunks,
Coats lay across the limbs,
No roof above but heaven,
They sing the good old hymns.
So they pray and preach together
And sing in one accord,
My heart within rejoices
To hear them praise the Lord.
Though seats are rough, uneven,
And they lay upon the sod,
There can be no fault in the building,
For the Architect is God.
Through years it s been a custom
That prayer should first be made,
And then the others follow,
Their praises ring in wood and glade.
Singing on the Mountain Side 223
There in the temple of temples,
They tell of the glory land,
While they beg the many sinners
To take a better stand.
They beg the sinners to listen
As they explain God s love,
Telling of home that s waiting
In the mansions up above.
Still praising God, the Father,
Who gave His only Son,
The meeting service closes
Just as it had begun. -Jessie Stewart
MOUNTAIN DOCTOR
This ballad was composed and set to tune by Jilson Set
ters, the Singin Fiddler of Lost Hope Hollow, who can
neither read nor write, yet who has composed and set to
tune more than one hundred ballads, some of which the
late Dr. Kittredge of Harvard declared "will live as
classics."
A very kindly doctor, a jriend, I quite well know,
He owned a mighty scope of land, some eighty year ago.
The doctor had an old-time house, built from logs and
clay,
A double crib of roughhewn logs, it was built to stay.
The doctor he would fish and hunt,
He would bring in bear and deer;
He was content and happy in his home
With his loved ones always near.
224 Blue Ridge Country
The doctor owned a faithful horse,
He rode him night and day;
He had nothing but a bridle path
To guide him on his way.
The panther was his dreadful foe,
It often lingered near;
The doctor always went well armed,
He seemed to have no fear.
He made himself a nice warm coat
From the pelt of a brown woolly bear;
Often I loved to trace its length
With eager hands through shaggy hair.
The forepaws fitted round his wrists.
The hind parts reached to his thighs,
And of the head he made a cap
That sheltered both his ears and eyes.
The doctor dearly loved the woods,
He was raised there from a child;
He was very fond of old-time ways,
If you scoffed them, he -would chide.
He was good and sympathetic,
He traveled night and day;
He doctored many people,
Regardless of the pay.
Nels Tatum Rice was his name,
He was known for miles around;
Far beyond the county seat,
Long the Big Sandy up and down.
Singing on the Mountain Side 225
His mother wove his winter clothes,
As a boy he d case their furs;
With them to the county seat,
But once a year he d go.
The merchant he would buy the fur,
It gladdened the boy s heart.
He had money in his jeans,
When for home he did start.
Boys, them days was full of glee,
Both husky, fat and strong.
Nels very soon retraced his steps,
It didn t take him long.
Safely, of home once more in sight,
The boy quite glad did feeL
For he could hear old Shep dog bark,
Hear the hum of the spinning wheel.
Jilson Setters
MOUNTAIN WOMAN
*T ain t no use a-sittin here
And peerin 9 at the sun,
A-wishin I had purty things.
Afore my work is done.
I best had bug the taters
And fetch water from the run
And save my time fer wishin
When all my work is done.
Paw heerd the squirrels a-barkin*
This morning on the hill,
And taken him his rifle-gun
And tonic fer his chilL
226 Blue Ridge Country
Men-folks ain t got no larnin*
And have no time to fill;
Paw spends his days in huntin*
Or putterin* round his still.
" Tain t no use complainin "
Is the song the wood thrush sings.
And I don t know of nothin
That s as sweet as what he brings.
But I best had comb my honey
And churn that sour cream.,
And listen to the wood thrush
When I ketch time to dream.
Sometimes I feel so happy
As I hoe the sproutin* corn;
To hear, far off upon the ridge,
The call of Paw s cow horn.
Then I know it s time for milkin*
And my long day s work is through,
And I kin sit upon the stoop
And make my dreams come true.
I ll dream me a wish fer a shiney new hoe.
And some dishes, an ax and a saw:
And a calico shroud with a ribbon and bow
And a new houn dawg fer Paw.
-John W. Preble, Jr.
WOMAN S WAY
You like this Circle Star quilt, Miss, you say:
I have a favorance for this Flower Bed bright and fair;
I made it when my heart was light and gay.
Singing on the Mountain Side 227
Like me, it s much the worse for time and wear.
I used it first upon my marriage bed
And last, when Thomas^ my poor man f lay dead.
This Nine Patch that is spread across my bed,
My Emmy made it in her thirteenth year;
I meant for her to claim it when she wed
Excuse me, Miss, I couldn t help that tear.
She sewed her wedding dress so fine and proud
Before the day, we used it for her shroud.
That Double Wedding Ring? poor Granny Day,
Before I married Tom, made that for me.
A thrifty wife, I usen to hear her say,
Has kiverlids that all who come may see.
She rests there on the knoll f nenst the rise
The little grave is where my youngest lies.
Dove at the Window was my mother s make,
Toad in a Puddle is the oldest one,
Old Maid s Ramble and The Lady of the Lake
I made for Ned, my oldest son.
Hearts and Gizzards make me think of Grandpap Day.
"Like Joseph s coat of many colors, Ma," he d say.
The Snow Ball and the Rose are sister s make,
She lived in Lost Hope Hollow acrost yon hill,
Poor Jane, she might have had her pick of beaux 3
She sits alone because it was her wilL
A wife she never would consent to be,
For Jane, she kwed the man that favored me.
Martha Creech
228 Blue Ridge Country
MOUNTAIN SINGERS
What song is this across the mountain side,
Where every leaf bears elements of Him
Who is all music? Silences abide
With rock and stone. A conscious seraphim
Directs the measure, when the need of song
Arrives to set the spirit free again.
The Mountain Singers, traipsiri along
To woody trail and a cabin in the rain.
Bring native music fit to cut apart
Old enemies with gunshot for the heart.
With Singin Gatherin and Infare still intact,
The Mountain Singers make of ghost, a fact.
Rachel Mack Wilson
TRAGEDY
THE ASHLAND TRAGEDY
One Christmas morn in eighty-one,
Ashland y that quiet burg,
Was startled the day had not yet dawned
When the cry of fire was heard.
For well they knew two fair ladies
Had there retired to bed.
The startled crowd broke in, alas,
To find the girls both dead.
And from the hissing, seething flames
Three bodies did rescue;
Poor Emma s and poor Fannie *s both.
And likewise Bobby s too.
Singing on the Mountain Side 229
And then like Rachel cried of old
The bravest hearts gave vent,
And all that blessed holiday
To Heaven their prayers were sent.
Autopsy by the doctors show d
The vilest of all sin,
And proved to all beyond a doubt
Their skulls had been drove in.
And other crimes too vile to name;
I ll tell it if I must;
A crime that shocks all common sense,
A greed of hellish lust.
An ax and crowbar there was found
Besmeared with blood and hair y
Which proved conclusively to all
What had transpired there.
Two virgin ladies of fourteen,,
The flower of that town f
With all their beauty and fond hopes*
By demons there cut down-
Just blooming into womanhood.
So lovely and so true;
Bright hopes of long and happy days
With morals fust and pure.
Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth,
Was scarcely known to fail,
And in ten days had the assassins
All safely placed in jail.
George Ellis, William Neal and Craft,
Some were Kentucky^ sons,
230 Blue Ridge Country
Near neighbors to the Gibbons house
And were the guilty ones.
In this here dark and bloody ground
They were true types indeed,
Of many demons dead and dam d
Who fostered that same greed.
A hellish greed of lust to blast
The virtuous and fair,
To gratify that vain desire
No human life would spare.
There Emma Thomas lay in gore,
A frightful sight to view;
Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp,,
And Bob; her brother, too.
Bob was a poor lame crippled boy.
Beloved by everyone;
His mother s hope, his sister s joy,
A kind, obedient son.
At that dread sight the mother s grief
No mortal tongue can tell.
A broken heart, an addled brain,
When all should have been well.
Both her dear children lying there,
Who once so merry laughed.
There stiff and stark in death they lay,
Cut down by Ellis Craft.
That dreadful demon, imp of hell,
Consider well his crime;
Singing on the Mountain Side 231
Although he was a preachers son,
Has blackened the foot of time.
Peyton Buckner Byrne
This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne
of Greenup, Greenup County, Kentucky. He is in error
in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the murdered
girl s name was Emma Cariox The tragedy occurred in
the early *8o s in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County,
Kentucky, which adjoins Greenup County. The town of
Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because of the
many hangings which occurred there in the days of the
Civil War. Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in
that County and one of his scholars, Miss Tennessee
Smith, supplied this copy of the old schoolteacher s bal
lad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd County,
not far from Ashland where he committed the crime.
THE MORAL OF THE BALLAD
There s a sad moral to this tale.
Now pass the word around;
Pull off your shoes now and walk light;
Ashland is holy ground.
Bill Neal he came from Virginia,
A grand and noble State?
But his associates were bad
And he has shared their fate.
Bill Neal he saw Miss Emma Thomas^
So beautiful and fair
That all his hellish greed of lust
Seemed to be centered there.
232 Blue Ridge Country
Bill Neal he was a married man,
Had children and a wife;
And oittimes bragged what he would do,
If it should cost his life.
Bill Neal done what he said he would,
And yet a greater sin;
Then with a great big huge crowbar
Broke Emma s skullbones in.
Yes, Bill Neal done just what he said,
And yet that greater sin,
For which the gates of Heaven closed
And will not let him in.
Now while his victim is in Heaven,
Where all things are done well,
There with the angels glorified,
Bill Neal will go to hell.
THE DEATH OF MARY PHAGAN
Leo M. Frank, manager of the pencil factory, was a Jew.
Sentiment ran high against him at the time of the inurder.
This ballad was composed by young Bob Salyers of Car-
tersville, Georgia, who heard the story on all sides. He
could neither read nor write.
Come listen all ye maidens,
A story Til relate
Of pretty Mary Phagan
And how she met her fate.
Her home was in Atlanta
And so the people say,
Singing an the Mountain Side 233
She worked in a pencil factory
To earn her meager pay.
She went down to the office
One April day, it s said;
The next time that they saw her,
Poor Mary, she was dead.
They found her outraged body
Oh, hear the people cry
"The fiend that murdered Mary
Most surely he must die."
James Conley told the story,
" Twos Leo Frank" he said,
"He strangled little Mary
And left her cold and dead."
Now Frank was tried for murder,,
His guilt he did deny.
But the jury found him guilty
And sentenced him to die.
His life he paid as forfeit;
And then there came a time
Another man lay dying,
And said he did the crime.
We do not know for certain,
But in the Judgment Day,
We know that God will find him
And surely make him pay.
Bob Salyers
234 Blue Ridge Country
THE FATE OF EFFIE AND RICHARJO DUKE
Oh, hearken to this sad warning,
You husbands who love your wife.
Don t never fly in a passion
And take your companion s life.
Of Doctor Rich Duke I will tell you,
Who lived up Beaver Creek way,
He married fair Effie A lien
And loved her well, so they say.
Both Effie and Rich had money,
But he was much older than she }
And she said, "All your lands and money
Should be. deeded over to me!
His wife he loved and trusted
And he hastened to obey;
But the fact he soon regretted
That he deeded his riches away.
They quarreled and then they parted,
The times were more than three,
For both of them were stubborn
And they never could agree.
Now Doctor John, his brother.
Was a highly respected man,
He brought Effie home one evening,
Saying, "Make up your quarrel if you can?
And Rich seemed glad to see her,
And followed her up the stair,
But only God and the angels
Know just what happened there.
Singing on the Mountain Side 235
Doctor John was down at the table
When he heard the pistol roar;
He ran up the stairs in a moment
And looked in at the open door.
Poor Rich lay there by his pistol
With a bullet through his brain,
And Effie lay there dying
Writhing in mortal pain.
They were past all human succor,
No earthly power could save;
And they took their secrets with them
To the land beyond the grave.
Now all you wives and husbands,
Take heed to this warning true.
Never quarrel over lands and money
Or some day the fact you will rue.
Co by Preston
THE FATE OF FLOYD COLUNS
This ballad was composed in 1925 by Jilson Setters,
when Floyd Ck&gt;ULns was trapped in a salt mine near Mam
moth Cave, Kentucky,
Come all you friends and neighbors
And listen to what I say,
Til relate to you a story,
Of a man who passed away.
He struggled hard for freedom,
His heart was true and brave,
While his comrades they were toiling
His precious life to
236 Blue Ridge Country
His name was Floyd Collins,
Exploring he did crave.
But he never dreamed that he d be trapped
In a lonely sandstone cave.
His entrance it was easy }
His heart was light and gay.
But his mind was filled with trouble
When he found he d lost his way.
He wandered through the cavern,
He knew not where to go,
He knew he was imprisoned,
His heart was full of woe.
He started for the entrance
That he had passed that day.
A large and mighty boulder
Had slipped down in his way.
The stone was slowly creeping
But that he did not know,
Underneath he found an opening
He thought that he could go.
He soon got tired and worried,
He soon then had to rest,
The boulder still was creeping,
It was tightening on his chest.
He lost all hopes of freedom,
No farther could he go;
His agony was desperate,
That you all well know.
His -weeping parents lingered near;
A mother gray and old.
Singing on the Mountain Side 237
Soon poor Floyd passed away
And heaven claimed his souL
A note was in his pocket,
The neighbors chanced to find;
These few lines were written
While he had strength and mind:
"Give this note to mother^
Tell her not to cry;
Tell her not to wait for me,
I will meet her by and by." 7 . 7 ..
J J Jilson Setters
Tliis ballad was written by fifty-year-old Adam Crisp
who lived in Fletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Col
lins* death. Crisp could neither read nor write but com
posed many ballads.
FLOYD COLLINS FATE
Come all you young people
And listen to what I tell:
The fate of Floyd Collins,
Alas, we all know well.
His face was fair and handsome,
His heart was true and brave,
His body now lies sleeping
In a lonely sandstone cave.
How sad 3 how sad the story,
It fills our eyes with tears,
His memory will linger
For many, many a year.
His broken-hearted father
Who tried his boy to save
238 Blue Ridge Country
Will now weep tears of sorrow
At the door of Floyd s cave.
Oh, mother, don t you worry,
Dear father, don t be sad;
Til tell you all my troubles
In an awful dream I had;
I dreamed that I was prisoner.
My life could not be saved,
I cried, "Oh! must I perish,
Within the silent cave?"
The rescue party gathered,
They labored night and day
To move the mighty boulder
That stood within the way.
"To rescue Floyd Collins!"
This was the battlecry.
"We will never, no 3 we will never
Let Floyd Collins die"
But on that fatal morning
The sun rose in the sky,
The workers still were busy,
"We will save him by and by."
But, oh, how sad the evening,
His life they could not save,
His body then was sleeping
Within the lonely cave.
Young people all take warning
With this, for you and I,
We may not be like Collins,
But you and I must die.
Singing on the Mountain Side 239
It may not be in a sand cave
In which we find our tomb&gt;
But at that mighty judgment
We soon will find our doom.
Adam Crisp
PATRIOT
IT S GREAT TO BE AN AMERICAN
For long years the members of the Hamm family in
Rowan County, Kentucky, both old and young, have gath
ered on a Sunday in the month of August for their moun
tain Eisteddfod. Upon this occasion there is friendly ri
valry as to whose ballad or poem is best, who speaks his
composition best. And the prize, you may be sure, is not
silver but a book of poems. This composition of Nannie
Hamm Carter was read at their mountain Eisteddfod in
August, 1940.
Ifs great to be an American,
And live on peaceful shores.
Where we hear not the sound of marching feet,
And the war-clouds come no more,
Where the Statue of Liberty ever stands,
A beacon of hope for all,
Heralding forth to every land
That by it we stand or fall.
It s great to be an American^
For wherever we may go,
It is an emblem of truth and right,
A challenge to every foe.
It s great to be free and unfettered,
And know not wars or strife,
240 Blue Ridge Country
Where man to man united,
Can live a carefree life,
While men are jailing hour by hour
Upon some -foreign shore
Amidst the roar of battle there,
Ne er to return no more.
They re offered as a sacrifice.,
Upon the altar there,
With no one there to sympathize.
Or shed for them a tear.
Where men are marching mid the strife,
Where there, day after day,
There s danger and there s loss of life
Where conquerors hold sway.
They bow to rulers* stern commands,
They -face the deadly foe,
While far away in other lands,
There s sorrow, pain and woe.
But not so in America,
The birthplace of the free.
For midst the conflict Over There,
With loss of life and liberty,
It s a privilege to know,
That in a world, so fraught with pain,
We feel secure from every foe
Where naught but fellowship remains.
For in our free country,
We hear not the battlecry,
We hear not the bugle s solemn call,
When men go forth to die.
Singing on the Mountain Side 241
For over all this land of ours
The Stars and Stripes still wave,
Waving forth in triumph
O er this homeland of the brave.
Hats off! to our own America,
With pride we now can say,
We bow not down to rulers,
For justice still holds sway.
God keep us free from scenes like those
That are in other lands,
Where the shell-shocked and the wounded
Are there on every hand.
So, it s great to be an American,
We ll stand by our flag always,
For right shall not perish from the earth
As long as truth holds sway;
As long as her sons are united
In a cause that s just and true,
The bells of freedom still will ring,
Ring out for me and you.
Nannie Hamm Carter
SAD LONDON TOWN
Jilson Setters composed and set to tune this ballad
and sang it at the American Folk Song Festival in June,
1941, to the delight of a vast audience. To the surprise of
some he pronounces the word bomb, bum, like his early
English ancestors.
Eight years ago I took a trip,
I decided to cross the sea;
242 Blue Ridge Country
I spent some weeks in London,
Everything was strange to me.
The city then was perfect peace,
They had no thought of fear,
Soon then the bombs began to fall,
The airplanes hovered near.
The people cannot rest at night,
Danger lingers nigh,
Bombs have dropped on many homes,
The innocent had to die.
The flying glass cut off their heads,
Their hands and noses too;
Folks then had to stand their ground,
There was nothing else to do.
English folks are brave and true,
But do not want to fight.
The Germans slip into their town
And bomb their homes at night.
They watch the palace of the King,
They watch it night and day;
They have a strong and daring guard
To keep the foe at bay. T - T . .
^ 7 Jilson Setters
The aged fiddler also composed and set to tune the
following ballad called
BUNDLES FOR BRITAIN
Two little children toiled along
A steep and lonely mountain road,
Singing on the Mountain Side 243
They heeded not the bitter cold
But proudly bore their precious load.
I asked them where they might be bound
And what their heavy load might be.
They said, "We re going to the town
To send our load across the sea.
"For, -far away on England s shore,
Our own blood kin still live, you know;
They fight to stay the tyrant s hand
That threatens freedom to overthrow.
"And many little homeless ones
Are cold and hungry there today,
*Tis them we seek to feed and clothe
And every night for them we pray.
"Some of them reach our own dear land,
While others perish in the sea;
And we must help and comfort them
Until their land from war is free"
Oh 3 may we like these children face
The curse of hate and war s alarm
With faith and courage in our hearts
And Britain s Bundles neath our arms.
Jilson Setters
SERGEANT YORK
His own favorite baUad, however, is that which he com
posed and set to tune several years ago about Sergeant
AJvin C. York, who is Jilson Setters idea of "a mountain
man without nary flaw/*
244 Blue Ridge Country
Way down in Fentress County in the hills of Tennessee
Lived Alvin York, a simple country lad.
He spent his happy childhood with his brothers on the
Or at the blacksmith shop with busy dad.
He could play a hand of poker, hold his liquor like a man,
He did his share of prankin in his youth;
But his dying father left him with the family in his care,
And he quickly sought the ways of God and truth.
Then came the mighty World War in the year of seven-
teen,
And Uncle Sam sent out his call for men.
Poor Alvin s heart was heavy for he knew that he must go,
And his Church contended fighting was a sin."
He never questioned orders and did the best he could,
And soon a corporal he came to be;
He was known throughout the country as the army s fight
ing ace,
Beloved in every branch of infantry.
The eighth day of October the Argonne battle raged,
Machine guns whined and rifle bullets flew;
Then Alvin lost his temper, he said, "I ve had enough,
Til show these Huns what Uncle Sam can do."
He took his army rifle and his automatic too,
And hid himself behind a nearby tree;
He shot them like he used to shoot the rabbits and the
squirrels
Away back home in sunny Tennessee.
Singing on the Mountain Side 245
He took the whole, battalion one-hundred-thirty -two
While thirty-five machine guns ceased to fire;
And twenty German soldiers lay lifeless on the ground
As he marched his prisoners through the bloody mire.
His name was not forgotten, a hero brave was he,
Our country proudly hailed his fearless deeds;
He was offered fame and fortune but for these he did not
care,
His daily toil supplied his simple needs.
"7 want nothing for myself" he said, "but for the boys and
girls,
Who live here in the hills of Tennessee,
I d like to have a school for them to teach them how to
farm
And raise their families in security 3
His wish was quickly granted. At Jamestown^ Tennessee,
There stands a school, the mountains joy and pride;
And with his wife and children in the hills he loves so well,
He hopes in peace forever to abide. ^Uson Setters
A Tennessee mountaineer, who is proud of his "wight
o learning" according to his own words, "put together"
this ballad which he calls
NORJRJS DAM
At N orris Dam, our Uncle Sam
Has wrought a mighty deed,
He built a dam, did Uncle Sam,
So "all who run may read"
246 Blue Ridge Country
He saw the "writing on the wall"
Called the soothsayers in.
Soothsayers all, both great and small
Said, "It would be a sin
"To let the things God wrought for man
Stand idle all the years.
But use God s knowledge (in a can),
Soothsaying engineers."
And so, this miracle today
You see with your own eyes.
Was planned ten million miles away
In "mansions in the skies."
That pigeonhole is empty there;
Now we employ that plan
For use and pleasure, down here, where
Twill be a boon to man.
So day by day in every way,
At least we re getting wise;
And now we play- as well we may
On playgrounds from the skies.
So let us give a rousing cheer
For our dear Uncle Sam,
Whose mighty arm reached way up there
And brought down Norris Dam.
George A. Barker
THE DOWNFALL OF PARIS
Oh; come all ye proud and haughty people.
Behold a nation plunged in gloom,
Singing on the Mountain Side 247
A country filled with pain and sorrow
Since that great city met its doom*
They had no thought of this disaster;
The Maginot Line could never -fail.
Then came the downfall of proud Paris;
Oh, hear the people mourn and wail.
Oh, see the horror and destruction y
When death came flying through the air.
The people vainly sought a refuge;
Oh, friends, take warning and beware.
They hear the sound of alien footsteps.
The soldiers marching side by side
Among the ruins of that great city,
A mighty nation s boast and pride.
Oh y let us then be wise and careful.
And strive to keep our country free;
For war is cruel to the helpless,
The weak must pay the penalty.
God help the rulers of the nations!
What is in store, no tongue can tell;
But keep in mind the simple story
The Line was broke and Paris fell.
Co by Preston
9. Reclaiming the Wilderness
VANISHING FEUDIST
r "iHERE are people all over the United States to whom
I the mere mention of the word mountaineer evokes
a fantastic picture a whiskey-soaked ruffian with blood
shot eyes and tobacco-stained beard, wide-brimmed felt
cocked over a half-cynical eye, finger on the trigger of a
long-barreled squirrel rifle. He is guarding his moonshine
still. Or he may be lying in wait behind bush or tree to
waylay his deadly enemy of the other side in a long-fought
blood-feud.
Though there may be a semblance of truth in both,
such pictures should be taken with a grain of salt. Illicit
whiskey has been made in our southern mountains, as
well as in towns and cities throughout the country. There
were blood-feuds in bygone days but they have been so
overplayed that scarcely a vestige of the real story remains
recognizable. Few of the old leaders are left to tell the
facts.
I have known well and claim as my loyal friends mem
bers of families who have been engaged in the making of
illicit whiskey. I have known quite well many members
of families on both sides in two of the most famous feuds
in the southern mountains. These people were and are
today my good friends and neighbors.
248
Reclaiming the Wilderness 249
As recently as the fall of 1940, 1 returned to Morehead,
the county seat of Rowan County, for a visit with the
Martins and Tollivers. Strangely enough, upon the day
of my arrival I found Lin Martin, son of John Martin,
who killed Floyd Tolliver, up on a ladder painting the
walls of the Cozy Theatre. This modern motion-picture
theater occupies the site of the old Carey House where
Martin shot Tolliver. Lin was standing in almost the exact
spot where his father stood when he shot Floyd Tolliver.
Most willingly he stepped out into the sunlight, paint
brush and bucket in hand to meet and be photographed
with Clint Tolliver, a son and nephew of the Tolliver
leaders, whose father, Bud, was killed by the posse in the
all-day battle on Railroad Street when the Tolliver band
was wiped out. Clint was a nephew of Floyd Tolliver,
slain by John Martin; he married Mrs. Lucy Trumbo
Martin s niece, Texannie Trumbo.
While the men shook hands in friendly fashion, believe
it or not, across the street in the courthouse yard under a
great oak, past which John Martin was hurried to the
safety of the jail, a blind fiddler was singing the famous
ballad composed by a Rowan County minstrel, called the
Rowan County Troubles, The sons of the feudists smiled
blandly. Clint Tolliver is a Spanish American War veteran
and Lin s brother, Ben, was a sharpshooter in the World
War.
Both TJTT Martin and Clint Tolliver say they have but
one regret today and that is that they are too old to take
up their guns to enlist in the United States Army. The
men and their families are the best of friends and meet
often at social gatherings.
So feuds die out, though feud tales persist. Old rancors
live only in memory.
250 Blue Ridge Country
Today in Morehead, the county seat of the once Dark
Rowan, there stands a modern State Teachers College on
the sloping hillsides within sight of the courthouse and
street where the Rowan County war was fought. One of
the halls is called Allie W. Young, taking its name from"
the Senator whose influence brought about the establish
ment of the college. Young s father, Judge Zachariah
Taylor Young, was once shot from ambush during the
troubles.
This same county is the seat of a native art exhibit
which has attracted nation-wide attention. It was started
many years ago by a descendant of Mary Queen of Scots,
Mrs. Lyda Messer Caudill, then a teacher of a one-room
log school on Christy Creek. One morning a little boy
living at the head of the hollow brought to school, not a
rosy apple (there wasn t a fruit tree on his place), but
clay models he had made in native clay of his dog, the
cow, and his pet pig. Mrs. Caudill seized the opportunity
to encourage the other children in her mixed-grade one-
room school to try their hand at clay modeling. Later
Mrs. Caudill became county superintendent of Rowan
County Schools. Through her enthusiasm and efforts the
plan has developed through the years and today mountain
children of Rowan County have exhibited their handi
craft in national exhibitions through the co-operation of
the group of American Association of University Women
of Kentucky with which Mrs. Caudill is affiliated
SILVER MOON TAVERN
Over on Main Island Creek in Logan County, West
Virginia, where Devil Anse Hatfield held forth in his day,
another picture greets the eye today. Coal-mining camps
Reclaiming the Wilderness 251
are strung along from one end of the creek to the other.
Omar, near where Devil Anse is buried, is quite a thriv
ing town. It was here that Jonse, the eldest son who loved
Rosanna McCoy, spent his last days as a night watchman
for a power plant. Jonse s nerves were so shattered he
jumped almost at the falling of a leaf and the company,
fearing some tragedy might be the result from too sudden
trigger-pulling, found other occupation for the Hatfield
son.
Within a few yards of the spot where the home of Devil
Anse burned to the ground stands today a rustic lodge
garishly designed. Over the doorway painted in bright
red letters are these words
SILVER MOON TAVERN
Neighbors call it a beer j int. Entering, you are greeted
by the proprietor, a mild, pleasant fellow who asks in a
slow mountain drawl, "What kin I do for you?" If you
happen to be an old acquaintance as I am, Tennis Hatfield
for he it is who runs the placewill add, "Glad to see
you. I ve not laid eyes on you for a coon s age. Set." He
waved me to a chromium stool beside the counter. "I ve
quit the law." Tennis had been sheriff of Logan County
for a term or two. "This is easier." He flung wide his
hands with a gesture that encompassed the interior of the
Silver Moon Tavern. "Well, there s no harm in selling
beer." He fixed me with a piercing look such as I had
seen in the eye of Devil Anse. "What s more there s no
harm in drinking it either, in reason. Young folks gather
in here of a night and listen to the music and dance and
it don t cost *em much money. A nickel in the slot. We
ain t troubled with slugs," he said casually. "The folks
252 Blue Ridge Country
choose their own tune." He pointed to a gaudily striped
electric music box that filled a corner of the tavern. With
great care he showed me the workings of the moan box,
he called it. "These are the tunes they like best." He
called them off as his finger moved carefully along the
titles: "Big Beaver, The Wise Owl, Double Crossing
Mamma, In the Mood, and Mountain Dew. They just
naturally wear that record out. Young folks here on Main
Island Creek like Lulu Belle and Scotty. See, they made
that record Mountain Dew." A slow smile lighted his
face. " Ton my soul all that young folks do these days is
eat and dance. That s how come me to put the sign on
the side of my beer j int Dine and Dance. We re right up
to snuff here on Main Island Creek," he added with a
smug smile. "But now Joe Hatfield over to Red Jacket in
Mingo County, he follows preaching and he says a beer
j int is just sending people plum to hell. I don t know
about that. There s never been no trouble here in my
place. I won t sell a man that s had a dram too many. And
If he starts to get noisy" he lifted a toe "out he goes!
I aim to keep my place straight/ He shoved his thumbs
deep into the belt of his breeches. "Not much doin* at
this time of day. The girls in school or helping with the
housework; the boys in the mines. Don t step out till after
supper. Then look out! The young bucks shake a heel
and the girls put on their lipstick. Them that can t afford
a permanent go around all day with their hair done up
in curlycues till they look a match for Shirley Temple
by the time they get here of a night. Times has surely
changed.**
A bus whizzed by and disappeared beyond the bend of
the road.
"Times has changed," Tennis repeated slowly as his
Reclaiming the Wilderness 253
gaze sought the hillside where Devil Anse lay buried. "I
wonder what Pa would a-thought of my place," he said
with conscientious wistfulness. His eyes swept now the
interior of the Silver Moon Tavern. "This couldn t a-been
in Pa s young days. Nor womenfolks couldn t a-been so
free. Such as this couldn t a-been, no more than their ways
then could stand today." The son of Devil Anse leaned
over the bar and said in a strangely hushed voice,
"Woman, I ve heard tell that you have a hankerin for
curiosities and old-timey things. I keep a few handy so s
I don t get above my raisin*." He reached under the coun
ter. "Here, woman, heft this!" He placed in my hands
Devil Anse s long-barreled gun. "Scrutinize them notches
on the barrel. That there first one is Harmon McCoy.
Year of sixty-three," he said bluntly.
While I hefted the gun, Tennis brought out a crumpled
shirt. "Them holes is where the McCoys stobbed Uncle
Ellison and there s the stain of his gonn."
The gruesome sight of the blood-stained garment
slashed by the McCoys completely unnerved me. I dropped
the gun.
Instantly a door opened behind Tennis and a young
lad rushed in. He took in the situation at a glance and
swiftly appraised my five-foot height. "Pa," he turned to
Tennis Hatfield, "you ve scared this little critter out of a
year s growth. And she ain t got none to spare."
Seeing that all was well he backed out of the door he
had entered, and Tennis went on to say that his young
son had quit college to join the army. "He ll be leaving
soon for training ramp. That is, if he can quit courting
Nellie McCoy long enough over in Seldom Seen Hollow.
Ton my soul, I never saw two such turtledoves in my life.
She s pretty as a picture and I ve told her that whether
254 Blue Ridge Country
or not her and Tennis Junior every marry there s always
a place for her here with us. A pretty girl in a pretty frock
is mighty handy to wait table." Again the wideflung hands
of the proprietor of the Silver Moon Tavern embraced
in their gesture the shiny tables, booths, chromium-
trimmed chairs, and the gaudy juke box in the corner.
In September, 1940, Tennis Hatfield s son, Tennis, Jr.,
joined the army* He was nineteen at the time.
The Hatfields and McCoys have married. Charles D.
Hatfield, who joined the army at Detroit s United States
Army recruiting office, is the son of Tolbert McCoy Hat-
field of Pike County and is friend to his kin on both sides.
The two families held a picnic reunion in the month
of August, 1941, on Blackberry Creek where the blood of
both had been shed during the feud, and at the gathering
a good time was had by all with plenty of fried chicken
and no shooting.
Today on the eve of another war things are still quiet
up in Breathitt County so far as the Hargises are con
cerned. Elbert Hargis, brother of Judge Jim Hargis who
was slain by his son Beach, has passed on. They buried
him, the last of Granny Hargis s boys, in the family bury
ing ground behind the old homestead on Pan Bowl, so
called because it is almost completely encircled by the
North Fork of the Kentucky River.
To his last hour, almost, Elbert Hargis sat in the shadow
of the courthouse looking sadly toward Judge Jim Hargis s
store where Beach had killed his father, the store in front
of which Dr, Cox had been assassinated. His eyes shifted
occasionally toward the courthouse steps down which the
lifeless body of J. B. Marcum plunged when Curt Jett
shot him from the back. Again Elbert s gaze turned to
the second-story windows of the courthouse from which
Reclaiming the Wilderness 255
Jim Cockrell had been shot to death one sunny summer
day.
Ever alert and never once permitting anyone to stand
behind him, with a gun in its holster thumping on his
hip every step he took, Elbert Hargis must have lived
again and again the days when his brother Jim directed
the carryings-on of the Hargis clan. But if you d ask him
if he ever thought of the old times, there would be a quick
and sharp No!, followed by abrupt silence.
Elbert Hargis is dead now. And a natural death was his
from a sudden ailment of the lungs. He died in a hospital
down in the Blue Grass where white-clad nurses and grave-
faced doctors with a knowing of the miracles of modern
surgery and medicine could not prolong the life of the
aged feudist for one short second. The last of Granny
Evaline Hargis s sons rests beside his mother, alongside
the three brothers John, Jr., Ben, and Jim, and the half-
brother Willie Sewell, whose death away back in 1886,
when he was shot from ambush at a molasses-making,
started all the trouble. In the same burying ground with
Elbert is the vine-covered grave of Senator Hargis, father
of the boys, who preceded his wife Evaline to the spirit
world long years ago.
BLOOMING STILLS
A visit today to a United States District Court in most
any section of the Blue Ridge Country where makers of
illicit whiskey are being tried shows that the name moon
shine no longer applies to the beverage. It got its name
from being made at night. Now operations in the making
are conducted by day, while only the transportation of
the liquor is carried on after nightfall. Trucks and even
256 Blue Ridge Country
dilapidated Fords with the windows smeared with soap
to conceal the load are pressed into service. The drivers
consider it safer to travel with their illegal cargo under
the shades of darkness.
During the questioning of witnesses and offenders in
court you learn that tips provided by law-abiding citizens
are the usual means of bringing offenders to trial. In rare
instances, however, members of a moonshiner s own family
have been known to turn him in.
The process of capturing the moonshiner has changed
considerably from that of other days. Then the revenooer
(mountain folk usually call him the law) slipped up from
behind the bushes on the offender and caught him red-
handed at the still. In those days the men who were mak
ing had their lookout men who gave warning by a call or
a whistle, even by gun signals, of the approach of the law
while the moonshiner took to his heels, hiding in deep
underbrush or far back under cliffs. Today these moun
tain men have learned not to run. For the officers of the
law are equipped with long-range guns and with equip
ment so powerful the bullets can penetrate the steel body
of an automobile. The method of locating the still has
changed too since the airplane has come into use. Looking
down from the clouds the flyer spies a thin stream of
smoke rising from a wooded ravine. He communicates by
radio to his co-workers of the ground crew, who immedi
ately set out at high speed by automobile to capture the
stilL
It is estimated that of the 170,000,000 gallons of liquor
consumed in this country in 1939, at least 35,000,000 were
illicit and that for every legal distillery there are at least
one hundred illegal ones. The southern mountain region
has always lent itself admirably to the making of moon-
Reclaiming the Wilderness 257
shine and far this reason has been a thorn in the flesh
of U. S. Alcohol Tax Unit. During the year 1939, accord
ing to Life^ it is estimated that more than 4000 stills were
captured in the states of Georgia, Alabama, South Caro
lina, and Florida. *
However, it is not the moonshiner who reaps the richest
revenue from corn whiskey, which he sells for ninety cents
a gallon, but the bootlegger and others down the line who
add on, each in his turn, until the potent drink reaches
a final sale price of ninety cents a quart and more. The
tax on legitimate whiskey is $2.25 a proof gallon which
makes it prohibitive in a community competing with the
moonshiner s untaxed product.
Through the southern mountain region Negroes fre
quently are employed by white men operating stills on a
large scale, where many boxes are used for the fermenting
mash. The fines and sentences vary with the output and
number of offenses.
The mountaineer, on the other hand, who operates a
small still usually is a poor man. When brought into
court he pleads that he cannot haul out a load of corn
over rugged roads miles to a market and compete with a
farmer from the lowlands who is not retarded by bad
roads. Or again, if he is from an extremely isolated moun
tain section, he offers the old reasoning, "It is my land
and my corn why can t I do with my crop whatever I
please?"
If the federal judge is a kindly, understanding man he
will listen patiently to the story of the mountaineer who
has made illicit whiskey, and if it be only the first or sec
ond offense, a sentence of six months in prison is imposed.
"But, judge, your honor," pleads the perplexed moun
taineer, "I ve got to put in my crop and my old woman is
258 Blue Ridge Country
ailin she can t help none. IVe got to lay in foirwood for
winter, judge, your honor, my youngins is too little to
holp." Often the understanding judge replies, "Now,
John, you go back home and get your work done up, then
come back and serve your sentence." Rarely has the judge s
trust been betrayed.
LEARNING
What with good roads, the radio, and better schools
and more of them the scene is rapidly changing in the
Blue Ridge Country.
The little one-room log school is almost a thing of the
past. Only in remote sections can it be found. No longer
is the mountain child retarded by the bridgeless stream,
for good roads have come to the mountains and with them
the catwalk an improvised bridge of barrel hoops strung
together with cables spanning the creek has passed. The
mountain mother s warning is heard no longer. "Mind,
Johnny, you don t swing the bridge." Concrete pillars
support steel girders that span the creek high above even
the highest flood point. Education soars high in the south
ern mountain region. Instead of a few weeks of school
there are months now, and what is more Johnny doesn t
walk to school any more. The county school bus, operated
by a careful driver, picks him up almost at his very door
and brings him back safely when school turns out in the
evening. Instead of the poorly lighted one-room school,
there is the consolidated school built of native stone, with
many windows and comfortable desks. If the mountain
boy or girl fails to get an education it is his own fault.
There is a central heating system and the teacher, you
may be sure, is a graduate of an accredited college. The
Reclaiming the Wilderness 259
Kentucky Progress Magazine of Winter, 1935, gives a re
markable example of what is taking place in an educa
tional way in the mountain region: "Twenty-nine well-
equipped, accredited four-year high schools and two junior
colleges now dot the five counties, Lawrence, Johnson,
Martin, Floyd, and Pike . . . seven high schools and one
junior college have the highest rating possible, member
ship in the Southern Association of Colleges and Second
ary Schools. . . . The advent of surfaced roads has made
successful consolidation possible in many instances/
Preceding the consolidated school an inestimable serv
ice has been rendered the children of the southern high
lands by means of the settlement school. It would be
impossible to discuss them all adequately, but of the out
standing ones of which I have personal knowledge are:
that great institution at Berea, Kentucky, the Hindman
Settlement School in Knott County, Kentucky; the Martha
Berry School in the mountains of Georgia; the agricul
tural school of Sergeant Alvin C. York near Jamestown,
Tennessee; and the John C. Campbell Folk School at
Brasstown, N. C.
Under efficient guidance mountain boys and girls are
taught to preserve the handicrafts of their forbears, knit
ting, spinning, weaving, making of dyes, and even a
pastime once indulged in by boys and men whittling.
Idle whittling has been converted into not only an artistic
craft, but a profitable one. Nowhere in the country is
there to be found a finer collection of whittled figures,
ranging from tiny chicks to squirrels, rabbits, birds, than
those made by the mountain youths at the John C. Camp
bell Folk School.
Perhaps no greater service is being rendered mountain
folk than that headed by Sergeant York in his agricul-
260 Blue Ridge Country
tural school, because he is of the mountains and knows
well the need of his people.
But even before the settlement school had been thor
oughly rooted there was the Moonlight School of Rowan
County, Kentucky, for adult illiterates. It was a great, a
magnificent undertaking by a mountain woman Mrs.
Cora Wilson Stewart, born in Rowan County. She had
been a teacher in the wretched, poorly lighted one-room
log school. Becoming county superintendent, she set about
to lead out of ignorance and darkness the adult illiterates
of her county. Happily she had been preceded in such
an undertaking by a pioneer teacher in rugged Hocking
County, Ohio, in the days of the Civil War. There Miss
Kate Smith, scarcely in her teens, who saw her brothers
shoulder their muskets and march off to the Civil War,
took upon herself the task of teaching, first, a bound boy,
an orphan lad bound by the state to a farmer. The lad
later became a stowaway in a covered wagon in which the
young teacher and her parents rode west. This lad in his
teens was only one of many adult illiterates taught by the
Ohio woman and her plan proved that it could be done.
That boy, William Wright, became a Judge of the Court
of Appeals.
With book-learning have come many broadening factors
in the life of the southern mountaineer. His sons attend
agricultural college, his daughters are active workers in
the 4-H clubs. They return to the hillside farm to show
their mothers how best to can fruit. The boys have learned
how to improve and conserve the soil, how to save forests.
The consolidated school has taught mountain children to
mix with others. They have Girl Scout groups and Boy
Scout groups; they learn self-government under trained
leaders.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 261
Above all, book-learning Is swiftly wiping out the old
suspicions and superstitions about the medical profession.
Time was when there was but one doctor in all of Leslie
County, Kentucky. Mountain mothers relied on the old
midwife; infant mortality was appalling. Then came the
Frontier Nursing School headed by Mrs. Mary Breckin-
ridge. Her work is known throughout the breadth of the
nation. The Frontier Nursing Service has the support of
the leading people of the nation. Debutantes gladly give
up a life of frivolity and ease to become trained in ob
stetrics and give their services to helping mountain
mothers and babies. Its purpose was to combat the infant
death rate in remote Kentucky mountain sections. The
nurses ride on horseback and visit and care for mountain
mothers. Mrs. Breckinridge herself was a nurse during
the World War in France and went back to the Scottish
Highlands from which her kinsman Alexander Breckin
ridge came to settle in the Shenandoah in 1728 where
she became a midwife.
Mountain folk usually are slow to take on new ways.
But the wonders wrought through the Frontier Nursing
Service they have "seen with their own eyes."
Learning has brought about a great change for the bet
ter in the life of the mountain woman. Once we saw her
lank, slatternly, meek, stoicmother of a dozen or more,
obeying with patient fortitude the will of her man. We
saw too the pitiable child-bride marrying perhaps a man
three times her age because he could take care of her.
There being so many in the family Pappy and Mammy
were glad to be rid of one of their flock. Though both
pictures were often as overdrawn as that evoked by a
daughter of the Blue Ridge a whimsical picture of a
pretty maid in full-skirted crinoline with a soft southern
262 Blue Ridge Country
accentmoonlight and honeysuckle, a gallant, goateed
colonel paying court to her charm and beauty while he
sips a mint julep. This picture and that of the snaggle-
toothed mountain woman in bedraggled black calico can
no more be taken for fact than that Jesse James is still
holding up stagecoaches or that cowboys in high boots
and leather breeches are daily wedding the rich eastern
ers* daughters who have come West.
There are well-organized centers: weaving centers that
market the wares of mountain women all over the nation;
music centers and recreational centers. Women and their
daughters are better dressed and certainly they give more
care to their appearance than the mountain woman did
when she rode to the county seat on court day with a
basket of eggs and butter and ginseng on one arm and a
baby on the other.
She still knits and crochets and hooks rugs not from
leavings of the family s wearing clothes but from leav
ings she buys from the mills. She does not have to take
her wares to the county seat today she stretches up a
clothesline across the front stoop, pins her rugs and lace
on the line, and the passing motorist buys all that her
busy hands can make.
The question is often asked: How does the mountain
woman regard her right to vote? Generally she is uncon
cerned with the vote. But as time goes on, by reason of
the many factors that enter into her new way of living,
she is evidencing more interest, both in the county and
state elections. Strangely enough, though the mountain
woman went hesitantly to the polls, a Kentucky mountain
woman, Mrs. Mary Elliott Flanery, of Elliott County, was
the fest woman to be elected to the legislature south of
the Mason and Dixon line. She was self-educated and for
Reclaiming the Wilderness 263
a number of years was rural correspondent for newspapers,
which experience perhaps gave her a broad understanding
of political matters and the incentive to enter the field.
Hers was a distinctive service to the commonwealth and
particularly to her sisters of the southern highlands, inas
much as she was first of her sex to actually voice before a
legislature the problems and needs of the mountain
woman.
Today with rural electrification the mountain woman
ceases to be a drudge. She is on a par with her sister of
the level land.
She no longer stumbles wearily to the barn after dark
with a battered lantern, its chimney blackened with
smoke. She has only to switch on a light and turn to
milking. Or if her household has progressed to dairy
farming, as many of them have, finding the sale of milk to
the city creameries more profitable than raising vegetables,
she has only to attach the electric devices and the cows
are milked mechanically. She sits no more at the churn,
one hand gripping the dasher, the other holding a fretful
babe to her breast. Now that unseen juice, or lectric,
comes along the wire and into the new churn and there!
Almost before you know it there is a plump roll of butter.
The whole family benefits from rural electrification.
The youngest girl of the household is not reminded of
the irksome task of cleaning and filling the lamps, trim
ming the wicks. What if the single bulb swinging from
the middle of the ceiling is fly-specked! It still gives ample
light for the room. The hazard of the overturned oil lamp
and the fear of burning the house down are gone too. "I d
druther have lectric than a new cookstove or a saddle
mare," any mountain woman will tell you.
She is through with the back-breaking battling trough
264 Blue Ridge Country
and the washboard. Her produest possession and the great
est labor-saving device on the place is the electric washer.
Carefully covered with a clean piece of bleach, it holds a
distinguished place in the corner of the dining room when
not in use. It is the first thing to be exhibited to the visitor.
But whenever progress brings, it likewise takes away.
The fireside gathering where the glowing logs provided
light and cheer for the family circle, conducive to story
and riddle and song, has almost reached the vanishing
point. Instead, the young folks pile into the second-hand
Ford and whiz off to town. They don t wait for court week,
when in other days the courthouse yard was the market
place of the hillsman. Though the old courthouse still
stands as it did in early days, the scene has changed. There
is one ancient seat of justice in the Big Sandy country
within sight of the spot where the first settlers built their
fort for safety against Indian attack, and over the door
these words catch the eye
READER, WHERE WILT THOU SPEND ETERNITY?
Young folks don t seem to give it much thought. Just
across the road (it is paved now) the raucous sound of
the juke box is heard playing I Understand, Hut Sut,
You Are My Sunshine and Booglie, Wooglie, Piggy. The
jitterbugs are at it early and late. They know all the
hits on the Hit Parade. They know Frankie Masters* and
Jimmy Dorsey s latest records and the newest step and
shake. If they ever tire, which is rarely, there are booths
and stalls where they may sip a soda, drain a bottle of coke,
crunch a sandwich, a yard-long hot dog, a hamburger.
Or, if he is real sophisticated and she "has been farther
under the house hunting eggs than some have been on
Reclaiming the Wilderness 265
the railroad cars/ he will cautiously draw his hip flask,
when the waiter or proprietor isn t looking, and pour a
snort of year-old or Granddad in the glass of cracked ice.
Sure, you buy your cracked ice, what do you think this is?
"Let s go on to the Rainbow," she suggests presently, when
only cracked ice is left in the glass. "Rainbow? You got
your rainbow right here in the juke box," he answers. "I
don t mean no rainbow like s on the groan box, and you
know it." Maybe they go, maybe they don t. But things
are surely changing along the once quiet mountain trail.
Now if the lad is real devilish he will try a slug in the juke
box instead of a coin. Then the proprietor drops his beam
ing smile and asserts his authority. A young stripling or
two may drop in, stagging it. One gets an eye on a pretty
girl dancing with her date. But just let him try to cut in.
"Can t you read?" With the proprietor s husky voice the
intruder feels at the same moment the proprietor s firm
hand upon his shoulder. "What s eatin you? Can t you
read, I say!" The owner of the big voice and bigger fist
points a warning finger to the sign on the wall
NO STAG DANCING
The stag isn t slow in being on his way. He and his
pals pile into their car and head toward the next tavern.
The present generation of mountain youth may have
lost their superstition but they will take a long chance on
beating the pinball machine. They will play it for hours
until the last nickel is dropped in the slot because, "Yes
siree, just last night at the Blue Moon I saw a fellow get
the jackpot. Double handful of coin!"
A mountain girl once ashamed because her granny
smoked her little clay pipe puffs a cigarette nonchalantly
266 Blue Ridge Country
- - - - - -
held between highly manicured fingertips. She will spend
her last dollar for a permanent and lipstick. She would
not be interested in the simple fireside games, Clap In
and Clap Out, Post Office and Drop the Handkerchief.
Such things are far too slow for her highstrung nerves
these days.
However, community centers are trying valiantly to
bring back square dancing and community singing. The
effort is successful in some localities, particularly through
North and South Carolina. Old-time singing school with
the itinerant singing master has given place to singing
societies that meet sometimes in the summer months on
the courthouse square or indoors.
Religious customs, too, are becoming modernized. The
foot-washing of the Regular Primitive Baptists, while it is
still carried on in some of the mountain churches, lacks
much of the solemnity and imposing dignity of bygone
days. The church house itself is changed, which may ac
count for much of the modification of customs. The log
church is replaced with a modern structure of native stone.
The walls are painted. There is a gas chandelier suspended
from the ceiling. While there is still no elaborate, ele
vated pulpit, the floor of the front portion of the church
where the faithful wash each other s feet is today covered
with linoleum. The long spotlessly white towel used for
drying the feet of the meek has given place to a brightly
colored green and red striped bath towel (basement spe
cial, or such as are found on the counters of the five and
ten). The singing, instead of being the solemn chant of
the sixth century to which mountain folk for generations
adapted the words of their traditional hymns, is in swift
tempo, almost jazz such as can be heard at any point on
your radio dial any day in the week.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 267
The jolt wagon, with its rows of straight hickory chairs,
carrying the whole family to meeting with a well-filled
basket with victuals for all, is a thing of the past. At a re
cent foot-washing down in the Georgia mountains there
was but one wagon in front of the little church. A string
of automobiles of all sizes and makes was strung along the
road for a mile.
The solemn funeralizing with its simple beauty is al
most a thing of the past in the southern mountains. Today
it is accompanied by the barking of the hot-dog vendor,
"Get your hot dogs here. A nice ice cold drink of Coca-
Cola here! Here s your Doctor Pepper! Cold orange
drink!"
The decorations on the grave once paper flowers made
by loving hands are garish factory-made flowers in cello
phane covers. Mother s picture in the glass-covered box
beside her headstone is gone long ago. The favorite hymn
is sometimes sung and a few of the old-time preachers
survive to weep and pray and sing and offer words of
praise for the long-departed friend. The present genera
tion do not speak of the funeralizing. Today it is a me
morial. Strangely enough, however, only a few miles from
the heart of the Big Sandy country, a memorial service
was held for O. O. Mclntyre for the second time on Au
gust n, 1940. A twilight memorial it was called and his
good friends and close associates came to hear him eulo
gized.
The mountain preacher of yesterday is passing fast*
Then, his was a manifold calling. When he traveled the
lonely creek-bed road with his Bible in his saddlebags, he
was the circuit rider bringing news of the outside world
to the families along the widely scattered frontier. He,
like the mountain doctor, was truly counselor and friend.
268 Blue Ridge Country
The people looked to him to tell of things that would be
happening in the near future. They hung upon his every
word from the pulpit. His reasoning in spiritual matters
was sound and his eloquence impelling. His sermons often
combined quotations from the early writers of England,
passages from Shakespeare, true echoes of Elizabethan Eng
lish, as might be expected considering his ancestry. Words
flowed freely from his lips. The mountain preacher to this
day has a natural gift of oratory. It has been handed down
through generations. He needs only the spur and the occa
sion to burst forth. The mountain preacher, as some may
imagine, was not always untutored or illiterate of the
type we sometimes encounter today in remote mountain
regions. In early days he was quite often both preacher
and teacher, such as William E. Barton, father of Bruce
Barton, who after preaching in the thinly settled parts of
Knox County, Kentucky, became the pastor of a Chicago
church in later years. Some of the early roving preachers
even studied theology in the great centers of learning
both in America and Europe.
At one time, even as late as the last quarter of a cen
tury, there were strait-laced Baptist preachers (my own
blood kin among them) who would not permit an organ
in the church. But today it is quite the vogue for young
evangelistic couples to hold forth with piano-accordion
and guitar. "It peps up the joiners," the evangelist says.
On the other hand, in remote churches, where preachers
still hold that note-singing and hymn books with notes are
the works of the Devil, these same fellows will play up the
hysteria of the audience with the "Holy Bark," the "And-
ah," "Yep, Yep," and the "Holy Laugh," chiefly at foot-
washing ceremonies.
The number of young people, however, who cling to
Reclaiming the Wilderness 269
the custom of foot-washing is comparatively small. One
reason may be that they are too busy with other things,
or that they consider such practices old-fashioned.
MOUNTAIN MEN
Old Virginia had its Patrick Henry, the Blue Grass
its Clays and Breckinridges, but the Big Sandy produced
from its most rugged quarter as fine and noble timber as
could be found throughout the breadth and width of the
Blue Ridge Country.
Early in his youth Hugh Harkins came from Pennsyl
vania to settle in Floyd County in the heart of the Big
Sandy. That was far back in the 1830*5, He knew the
saddlery trade but the young man preferred the profes
sion of law. So acquiring a couple volumes on practice and
procedure he began to study for the bar. He built himself
an office of stone which he helped to dig from the moun
tain side and with every spare dollar he bought more
law books and timber land. He died in 1869, but by that
time his grandson, Walter Scott Harkins, had a thirst
to follow his footsteps. The boy, even before he was old
enough to understand their meaning, listened avidly to
the speeches of his grandfather in the courtrooms of the
mountain counties. And when Walter Scott Harkins was
only a strip of a lad he rode the unbeaten paths to courts
of law with his law books in his saddlebags. If the day were
fair he d get off his horse, tether it to a tree and climb
high on the ridge. There with statute or law reporter in
hand he would read aloud for hours. Again he d close the
book and with head erect, hands behind him, young
Harkins would repeat as much as he could remember of
the text. Often he waxed enthusiastic. He longed to be an
270 Blue Ridge Country
orator. Sometimes thoughtless companions would jeer at
the young Demosthenes, even pelt him with acorns and
pebbles from ambush. But Walter Scott Harkins wasn t
daunted by any such boyish pranks. He kept on orating.
In the meantime, as he rode the lonely mountain paths,
he took notice of the fine timber, just as his grandfather
had before him. He was admitted to the bar in 1877 and
hung out his shingle at the door of his grandfather s
office. Like Hugh Harkins, the grandson also began in
vesting his earnings, meager though they were, in timber
land.
One summer evening near dusk the young lawyer was
riding toward the mouth of Big Sandy when he was star
tled to see in the distance a giant tongue of flame shooting
skyward. At first he thought there was fire on the moun
tain but he soon discovered that the flame did not spread
but continued in a straight column upward. He sat mo
tionless in the saddle for a moment. By this time darkness
had descended. The young lawyer was fascinated by the
brilliant flame and determined to test its strength. Taking
a law book from his saddlebags he opened the volume and,
to his surprise, was able to read the small type by the
light of the distant flame with as great ease as though an
oil lamp burned at his elbow. Then he recalled the story
of how Dr. Walker, the English explorer, had once read
his maps by the light of a burning spring. Unlike the early
explorer young Harkins determined to do something
about it. The legal mind of the lad spurred his zeal to find
the cause of the illuminating flame.
Walter Scott Harkins not only found the cause but he
probed the effect with fine results. With the aid of other
interested persons he acquired mineral rights of lands in
the Big Sandy country which included the burning spring,
Reclaiming the Wilderness 271
the like of which in the next decade was to illuminate
towns and cities and operate industries as far removed as
one hundred miles*
Moreover Walter Scott Harkins lived to see more than
75,000 acres of his own forest leveled, whereby he piled
up a fortune that could scarcely be exhausted even unto
the fifth generation of Harkinses.
On the window of his law office in Prestonsburg, Floyd
County, Kentucky, appears in letters of gold, an unbroken
line of five generations of Harkinses who have followed
the practice of law. Likewise the Harkins descendants
hold unbroken title to the largest acreage of timber land
in the country. The virgin forest brought its owner more
than $160,000 and the second growth is ready to cut.
Lumber companies bought 70,000 acres of forest and
constructed their own railroads to carry out the timber.
They calculated it would take about twenty-five years to
cull out all the big timber and by that time there would
be a second growth. Wasteful methods of lumbering, to
gether with frequent forest fires and man s utter disregard
for the future, have already brought about the necessity for
reforestation in many mountain sections. As far back as
1886 out of the Big Sandy alone was run $1,500,000 worth
of timber.
Rafts of logs carpeted the Big Sandy River and at its
mouth was the largest round timber market in the world.
With its row of riverfront saloons Catlettsburg, between
the Big Sandy and the Ohio Rivers, was then called the
wettest spot on earth. Through its narrow streets strode
loggers and raftsmen. Theirs was talk of cant hooks and
spike poles, calipers and rafts. "You best come and have a
drink down to Big Wayne s that ll put fire in your guts."
272 Blue Ridge Country
The boss wanted his whole crew to be merry, so the whole
crew headed for Big Wayne Damron s Black Diamond.
Today the old riverfront lives only in memory. That
part of the county seat is a ghost town. Timbermen and
loggers gather no more for revelry at the riverfront saloon.
And should you ask the reason, the old river rat will an
swer with a slow-breaking smile, "See off yonder locks
and dams! Can t run the logs through that!"
Forests that were felled a quarter of a century ago are
once again ready for the woodsman s ax.
The present generation of timbermen look upon a very
different scene. Their dim-eyed grandparents complacently
beheld the push boat, that crude ark which was urged
along the stream by means of long poles. It gave way to
shallow drift steamers. And in turn the steamers were
shoved aside for the railroad which was quicker. The
boats, Red Buck,, Dew Drop, once the pride of the river,
soon went to anchor and deterioration.
The county seat changed as well. Once women came to
do their trading there with homemade basket, filled with
eggs, butter, ginseng which they swapped for fixings,
thread, and calico. They motor in now to shop.
Typical of the changing scene is the town of Prestons-
burg in Floyd County. It became a county seat in 1799
and was once called Spurlock Station. Today it is a thriv
ing city with a country club. Daughters of once rugged
formers and struggling country lawyers now have a social
position to maintain.
Mountain women are becoming class conscious! More s
the pity.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 273
COAL
It is often said, "Old mother nature must have laughed
heartily at the pioneer, who in his mad rush to go west
hurried down through the wide troughs between the
mountains, hurrying on through the valleys, passing un
heeded the wealth in forests on either side, the wealth
in minerals under his very feet." But there came a time
when the mountain men discovered the treasure.
Over in Johnson County, adjoining Floyd, where Wal
ter Scott Harkins had an eye for timber, his young friend
was being twitted for a different reason- "John Caldwell
Calhoun Mayo," they d string out his long name, "when
you re cooped up in the poorhouse or the lunatic asylum,
you can t say we didn t warn you to quit digging around
trying to find a fortune under the ground."
But young Mayo, like his friend Harkins the lawyer,
would only say, thumbs hooked in suspenders, "He who
laughs last, laughs best."
Some of his youthful companions continued to poke fun
but John Caldwell Calhoun Mayo turned them a deaf ear.
On foot he trudged endless miles when he was a poor lad,
or rode a scrubby nag along the Warrior s Path, always
seeking coal deposits, pleading with landowners for leases
and options on acreage he knew to be rich in minerals.
He surmounted seemingly impossible barriers, even hav
ing legislation enacted to set aside Virginia land grants.
He tapped hidden treasures, developed the wealth of the
Big Sandy country that had been locked in mountain fast
nesses for centuries. Through his vision, thriving cities
blossom where once was wilderness.
The United States Geological Survey shows one eighth
274 Blue Ridge Country
of the total coal area of the nation to be in this region;
it supplies nearly one quarter of all the country s bitu
minous coaL
PUBLIC WORKS
Only in recent years has the mountaineer begun to for
sake his cove, however unproductive the earth may be,
for the valley and public works. Indeed mountain folk
long looked down on their own who sought employment
at public works, mines, lumber camps, steel mills. They
decried any employment away from the hillside farm, be
cause it meant to them being an underling. No moun
taineer ever wanted to be company-owned. Leastwise none
of the Wellfords of Laurel Creek. But Clate, youngest of
Mark Wellford s family, lured by the promise of big cash
money, decided to quit the farm and take his wife and
little family down to the foothills. "There s a good mine
there, pays good money, and there s a good mine boss on
the job," so Clate was told. Some two years later Clate,
a weary figure, emerged one evening from the company
commissary. His face was smudged with coal dust. A
miner s lamp still flickered on his grimy cap. He carried
a dinner bucket and the baby on one arm. Over his shoul
der hung a gunnysack that bulged with canned goods and
a poke of meal. At his heels followed his bedraggled, snag
gle-toothed wife, a babe in her aims and another tugging
at her skirts. Her faded calico dress that dragged in the
back was tied in at the waist with a ragged apron. There
was a look of sad resignation in her eyes. Now and then
she brushed a hand up the back of her head to catch the
drab stray locks. She might have been fifty, judging from
the stooped shoulders and weary step. Yet the rounded
Reclaiming the Wilderness 275
arms her sleeves were rolled to the elbow looked youth
ful.
Clate halted a few minutes to talk to another miner, a
boy in his teens. "What d you load today?" the younger
asked after casual greetings. " Tarnal buggy busted a
dozen times, held me back," Clate complained, shifting
the dinner pail and the baby. "Always something to hold
a man back." "I m figuring on going to Georgia," the
young lad sounded hopeful. "Got a buddy down there in
the steel mill. Beats the mines any day." He saw some
young friends across the street and hurried to join them.
"Come on, Phoebe!" Clate called over his shoulder to
his wife, "get a mosey on you. I m hongry. And ginst you
throw a snack of grub together it ll be bedtime. An* be
fore you know it, it s time to get up and hit for the hill
again." He plodded on up the winding path to a row of
shacks. His little family followed.
The row of dilapidated shacks where the miners lived
was clinging to the mountain side at the rear, while the
fronts were propped up with rough posts. They were all
alike with patched rubberoid roofs, broken tile chimneys,
windows with broken panes. Rough plank houses un-
painted, though here and there a board showed traces of
once having been red or brown. Between the houses at
rare intervals a fence post remained. But the pickets had
long since been torn away to fire the cookstove or grate.
There were no gardens. Coal companies did not encourage
gardening. Miners and their families lived out of cans,
and canned goods come high at the company s commissary.
A tipple near the drift mouth of the mine belched
coal and coal dust day after day. When Phoebe you d
never have known her for the pretty girl she used to be far
back in the Blue Ridge rubbed out a washing on the
276 Blue Ridge Country
washboard, hung it to dry on the wire line stretched from
the back door to a nail on the side of the out-building,
she knew that every rag she rubbed and boiled and blued
would be grimy with coal dust before it dried. What was
she to do about it? Where else could the wash be hung?
Once Phoebe thought she had found the right place. A
grassy plot quite hidden beyond a clump of trees. She
put the wet garments in a basket and carried them off to
dry, spreading them upon the green earth. But no sooner
had she spread out the last piece than a fellow came rid
ing up. "What s the big idea?" he demanded, shaking a
fist at the garments on the ground. And Phoebe, from
Shoal s Fork of Greasy Creek, never having heard the ex
pression, mumbled in confusion, "I m pleased to meet
you."
"Don t try to get fresh/ the fellow scowled. "Don t you
know this ground is company-owned? The big boss keeps
this plot for his saddle horse to graze on. Pick up your
rags and beat it!"
She understood from the gesture the meaning of beat
it and obeyed in haste.
There was little room to stretch up a line indoors,
though she did sometimes in the winter when the back
yard was too sloppy to walk in. Clate Wellford s was one
of the smaller shacks, a room with a lean-to kitchen. The
others, with two rooms, cost more. Besides there were
other things to be taken out of date s pay envelope before
it reached him; there were electric light, coal, the store
bill, and the company doctor.
"None of my folks have been sick. WeVe never even
set eyes on the doctor," Clate complained to the script
clerk on the first payday.
"What of it?" the script clerk replied. "You d be run-
Reclaiming the Wilderness 277
ning quick enough for the doctor if one of your kids or
your old woman got sick or met with an accident, wouldn t
you? The doctor s got to live same as the rest of us."
So the miner stumbled out with no more to say. Some
times he d vent his spleen upon his wife. "You wuz the
one that wanted to come here! Wisht I d never married.
A man can t get nowheres with a wife and young ones on
his hands." And the wife, remembering the way of moun
tain women, offered no word of argument.
When the owners of the coal operation came from the
East to check up output and earnings they didn t take
time to make a tour of inspection of the shacks. Certainly
they had no time to listen to complaints of miners.
Lured by the promise of big money Clate Wellford,
like many other mountain men, forsook the familiar life
of his own creek for the strange work-a-day of the mining
camp.
Back on Shoal s Fork of Greasy Creek there was always
milk a-plenty to drink. Bless you, Clate knew the time
when he d carried buckets full of half-sour milk to the
hogs. How they guzzled it! Here there was never a drop
of cow s milk to drink. You got it in cans thick, con
densed, sickeningly sweet. Couldn t fool the children, not
even when you thinned it with water. "It don t taste like
Bossy s milk," the youngsters shoved it away.
What was more, back on Shoal s Fork there was always
fried chicken in the spring. All you could eat. Turkey
and goose and duck, if you chose, through the winter and
plenty of ham meat. There was never a day date s folks
couldn t go out into the garden and bring in beans, beets,
corn, and cabbage. He d never known a time when there
were not potatoes and turnips the year round. The Well-
fords had come to take such things for granted. But here
278 Slue Ridge Country
in the coal camp you could walk the full length of the
place from the last ramshackle house on down to the
commissary and never see a bed of onions and lettuce. The
shacks were so close together there was no room for a gar
den, even if the company had permitted it.
"That s company-owned!" the boss growled at Clate
that time he was trying to break up the hard crusty earth
with a hoe.
"I ve got my own onion sets/* Clate tried to explain.
"My folks fetched em down."
"Who cares?" the company boss snarled. "What you
reckon the company s running a commissary for? The
store manager can sell you onions ready to eat."
So the miner didn t set out an onion bed.
Again, Clate found some old warped planks outside
the drift mouth of the mine; he brought them home and
was building a pigpen. The mine boss came charging
down upon him.
"What you doing with the company s planks?"
The frightened Clate tried to explain that he had sup
posed the wood thrown aside was useless and that he was
making ready for the young shoat his folks meant to bring
him.
"What you suppose the company would do if every
miner packed off planks and posts that he happens to see
laying around?" he eyed Clate suspiciously. "We d soon
shut down, that s what would happen. And as for meat.
You can buy sow-belly and bologna at the commissary."
There was something more. "If you want to keep out of
trouble and don t want a couple bucks taken out of your
pay, you better get them planks and posts back where you
found them!"
The miner s shack was perched on such high stilts that
Reclaiming the Wilderness 279
the wind whistled underneath the floor until it felt like
ice to the bare feet of the children. It took a lot of coal
in the grate and the kitchen stove to keep the place half
way warm. The children were sick all through the winter.
Now and then the company doctor stopped in on his
rounds of the coal camp to leave calomel and quinine.
With the birth of her last baby, Clate s wife got down
with a bealed breast after she had been up and about for
a week. I m bound to hire someone," Clate told his wife.
So he hired Liz Elswick to come and do the cooking, wash
ing, and ironing and to look after the children.
Out on Shoal s Fork neighbor women came eagerly to
help each other in case of sickness.
Though it was not much they had to pay Lizshe took
it out in trade at the store, the makings of a calico dress,
a pair of shoes it was a hardship on the Wellfords. For
Liz Elswick, like other women in a coal camp, never hav
ing handled real money, knew little of cost. Nor did she
know how to supply the simple needs of the family.
Phoebe was too ill to offer a word of advice, poor though
it would have been. So, before long, Clate was behind
with his store bill. Or to put it the other way around, for
the company always took theirs first, Clate had nothing
left in his pay envelope on payday.
Then, when he might have had a few dollars coming,
something else would happen: shoes would be worn out,
he d have to buy new ones for the children couldn t go
barefoot in the winter. He himself had to wear heavy
boots in the mine in order to work at all, for Clate had
to stand in water most of the time when he picked or
loaded. Another time the house caught fire and burned
up their beds, chairs, everything- Even though he had
steady work that month he had to sell his time to the
280 Blue Ridge Country
script clerk in order to get cash to replace his loss. A buddy
in the mine was selling out his few possessions at a sacri
fice because his wife had run off with a Hunkie. The Hun*
garian showed the faithless creature a billfold with green
backs in it, promised her a silk dress and a permanent.
"Why don t you buy new furniture at the commissary?"
the jscript clerk wanted to know of Clate. "There are beds
and chairs, bureaus and tables. Get them on time/
"I can t afford it," Clate said honestly.
So, after much bickering, the company s script clerk
offered to give the miner script for his time.
"My buddy has to have cash money," Clate argued.
"He s quitting. Going back to his folks over in Ohio. *
Clate found out that when he sold his time he got only
about fifty cents for a dollar.
"What you think I m accommodating you for?** the
company s script clerk wanted to know. "I m not out for
my health. Course if you don t want to take it" he shoved
the money halfway across the counter to Clate "you
don t have to. There are plenty of fellows who are glad
to sell their time."
There was nothing left for Clate to do. He and his
family had to have the bare necessities, bed, table, chairs.
Soon he was in the category with the other miners, al
ways behind, always overdrawn, always selling his time
before payday. Soon he was getting an empty envelope
with a lot of figures marked on the outside. Clate was
company-owned! If he lived to be a hundred he d never
be paid out.
Though Clate Wellford and the other coal miners never
heard the word redemptioner and indent, they were not
unlike those pioneer victims of unscrupulous subordinates.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 281
Men In bondage like the sharecropper of the Deep South,
the Okie of the West.
How different the children of the coal field looked to
those along the creeks in the shady hollows of the Blue
Ridge!
In the coal camps they were unkempt and bony, in
dirty, ragged garments. They squabbled among them
selves and shambled listlessly along the narrow path that
led past the row of shacks toward the commissary. The
path was black with coal dust and slate dumped along the
way to fill the mud holes.
Why do they continue to live in such squalor and in
bondage? Why don t they move away?
If a miner should decide to move out, he has no means
of getting his few belongings to the railroad spur some
distance from the camp, for he has neither team nor wagon.
All these are company-owned. The company, which con
trols the railroad spur, also has control too over the box
cars that are on the track. Only the company can make
requisition for an empty boxcar. If a miner wants to move
he cannot even get space, though he is willing to pay for
it, in a boxcar to have his goods hauled out.
He stays on defeated and discouraged,
If, however, he does quit one coal camp and get out he
is unskilled in other labor and if he should try to evade
his store and other obligations with one coal company,
the office employees have a way of passing on the Inform^
tion to another operation. There are ways of putting a
laborer on the blacklist.
But why should he try to move on? Word comes back
to the miner from other buddies who have tried other
camps. "They re all the same. Might as well stay where
you are."
282 Blue Ridge Country
Behind every shacl; is a dump heap of cans, coal ashes,
potato peel, coffee grounds, and old shoes.
Rarely was the voice of the miner s wife raised in song
as she plodded through her daily drudgery. Now and then
the young folks could be heard singing but not an ancient
ballad. Rather it was a rakish song picked up from drum
mers coming through the mining camps who sold their
inferior wares to the commissary manager.
There was a church propped up on the hillside. But
meeting usually broke up with the arrest of some of the
young fellows who didn t try hard enough to suppress a
laugh when the camp harlot went to the mourner s bench,
or when some old creature too deaf to hear a word the
preacher said went hobbling toward the front. Sometimes
an older miner, who for the sheer joy of expressing a long-
pent-up feeling, shouted "Praise the Lord!", was dragged
out by a deputy sheriff, along with the young bloods, on
a charge of disturbing religious worship.
The limb of the law usually knew who had a few dollars
left from the week s pay. The law knew too that a miner
preferred to pay a fine rather than lie in jail and lose time
on the job next day.
There was no pleasant diversion around the coal camp
for womenfolk and children, no happy gatherings such as
the play party, a quilting, an old-time square dance. In
their drab surroundings, little wonder men and women
grew old before their time.
That was yesterday. Today there are model mining
towns throughout the coal fields. Holden in West Virginia
even has swimming pools and modern cottages for its
miners. A miner can work on the side too it is not un
common to see signs over his cottage or barn door read
ing, "Painting and Paper Hanging," "Decorating/ There
Reclaiming the Wilderness 283
are thrifty vegetable gardens, and miners* wives vie with
each other in the product of their flower gardens. Holden
is sometimes called the Model Mining Town of America.
It has welcomed visitors from all over the land.
In Harlan, Kentucky, once the center of many stormy
battles between miners and operators, the county crowned
a Coal Queen on August 23, 1941* commemorating the
first shipment of coal thirty years previously. The queen,
a pretty eighteen-year-old high school girl, won the title
from six other contestants, enthroned on a replica of the
railroad car which hauled out the county s first coal. As
part of the celebration a f 1500 public drinking fountain
was dedicated and speakers hailed the economic progress
of Harlan County since 1911. Each day 1200 railroad cars
loaded with coal leave the county.
It was an all-day program being sponsored by the Harlan
Mining Institute safety organization in co-operation with
the County Coal Operators Association.
Not only were mining officials present from many points
but politicians as well were present, including Mrs. Her
bert C. Gawood, Republican nominee for sheriff, a sister
of the crowned coal queen.
BACK TO THE FARM
For those who do not have a hankering for work in the
foothills and industrial centers there is today a greater
incentive to go back to the farm or to stay there than ever
before in the history of our country. For the young moun
taineer there is the Future Farmer Association which not
only trains him in soil conservation, guides him in what
is best for his type of farm, or what stock he can best pro
duce, but also holds out the spur of reward. It is a fine
284 Blue Ridge Country
plan for promoting friendly rivalry and spurs the future
fafiier to excel his young neighbor. Each fall there is a
great state fair in a leading city of each of the Blue Ridge
states, where the young future farmers of America gather
with their exhibits in livestock, poultry, exhibits of their
own crops. There is even a revival of the prettiest baby
contest so familiar to the old county fair of the long ago.
However today the contest has expanded beyond mere
beauty; there is a health baby contest. The grand cham
pion rural child is given an award with much pomp, and
to complete the spirit of friendly rivalry and to bring
about better understanding and fellowship between coun
try and town there is also a contest for the champion rural
and city baby.
The mountain boy, because he is no longer isolated by
rugged roads, meets his city cousin on common ground.
The scene has changed along the once rugged creek-bed
road. In place of the saddle hung on a wall peg on the
front stoop for passersby to view and perhaps envy, a new
saddle once the joy and pride of the mountain lad, today
there is a spare tire and there is an auto in the foreyard or
in the garage, a garage which is often bigger than the little
cabin itself.
The mountain farmer is being taught by skilled leaders
to help himself.
Even if the mountaineer s farm is on a forty-five-degree
slope there is hope for him today, thanks to the Farm Se
curity Administration. A workable plan for soil rebuild
ing was the first step. To reclaim wet land the mountain
man digs drainage ditches. Stone, heretofore hidden in the
mountain side and unused, is now utilized for building
barns and houses. On fourteen acres a man and his family,
including a couple of grown sons and their families, can
Reclaiming the Wilderness 285
today raise a living and be comfortable. With a loan o
$440 from the Farm Security Administration a once -un
productive miserable farm can be made liveable and pro
ductive.
The farmer of the hill country is being trained to put
to use the things at hand.
Second-growth timber is coming on and is conserving
the productive qualities of the hillside soil which was
drained away by ruthless cutting of timber a quarter cen
tury ago. Today the farmer is taught to treat his farm and
pasture land with lime and phosphate, a thing unheard of
in the early days. And the greatest of all his blessings today,
the mountain farmer will tell you, is the good road.
Why then should he want to leave the mountains he
knows and loves so well?
It was tried by the young folks, but finding themselves
ill fitted for work at coal camps or steel and iron mills or
factories or industrial centers, they returned eagerly to the
hills, at least during the first five years of the thirties.
To this day, though some have remained in the mill
towns, it is not uncommon to hear the womenfolk whose
men have provided them with modern conveniences, a
frigidaire, a gas range, an electric washer and iron, a spigot
of running water say, "Wisht I had back my cellar house,
my cedar churn, the battling block to make clean our gar
ments. All these here fixy contrapshuns make slaves of my
menfolks at public works to earn enough cash money to
pay for them." And again, "I m a-feared of that mobile.
I d druther ride behint old Nell in the jolt wagon."
Recently a Harvard sociologist, Dr. C. C. Zimmerman,
has suggested that, because the Appalachian and Ozark
farmers are producing children in excess of the number
286 Blue Ridge Country
"required to maintain a population status quo/* they pull
up stakes and settle in "declining rural New England."
However, those in a position to know, through long
years of close contact with the southern mountaineer and
his needs, point out that no resettlement or colonizing
plan can be worked out until a better program of regional
analysis is first accomplished. They point out that many
a mountain farmer would not earn in a whole lifetime of
toil enough money to make a down payment on "even a
rundown New England farm. *
Besides there is still in the makeup of the mountaineer
that spirit of independence. He does not want to rent. He
wants to own outright, even if his property is no more than
a house seat. There are few sharecroppers in the southern
highlands. A mountaineer would rather suffer starvation
than be subservient. Though he may be illiterate he still
remembers, because the story has been handed on by word-
of-inouth, the suffering and mistreatment of his forbears
across the sea. *
To add to his security today there is the Tenant Pur
chase program for rehabilitation through the United States
Department of Agriculture, and mountain men themselves
are selected as members of the committee. It is a part of
the FSA. The Big Sandy News, July 25, 1941, carries this
story to the mountaineer: "The Tenant Purchase program
provides for the purchase of family type farms by qualified
tenants under the Bankhead-Jones Tenant Purchase Act.
Farm Security Administration rehabilitator loans are avail
able to low income farm families, ineligible for credit else
where, for the purchase of livestock, workstock, seed, ferti
lizer and equipment, in accordance with carefully planned
operation of the farm and home. About 150 farm families
Reclaiming the Wilderness 287
in Lawrence county have already been helped by this pro
gram.
"The services of debt adjustment commltteemen are
available to all farmers, as well as to FSA borrowers. The
committeemen will assist creditors and farm debtors to
reach an amicable adjustment of debts based on the ability
to pay."
In this particular section of the Blue Ridge, while some
are looking to the soil, others have an eye on the waters
above the earth. There is being revived the plan of twenty
years ago for the canalization of one of the best-known and
most important rivers of the Blue Ridge Country the Big
Sandy. As a means to that end there is an organization
called the Big Sandy Improvement Association and, with
a mountain man, Congressman A. J. May, to espouse its
cause, things look promising for the project.
The mountain men and their city co-workers get to
gether and speak their minds and exchange views at dinner
meetings down in the Big Sandy Valley. A survey is being
conducted to show to what extent a navigable river would
aid industry, especially the coal business. Mountain men
are joining their practical knowledge with the scientific
knowledge of men of the level land who are putting the
plan of canalization of the Big Sandy River before Uncle
Sam for consideration and backing.
The people of the Blue Ridge mountains are learning
slowly and surely to mingle and to work with others. That
again is due to good roads.
Once there was the simple manner of making sorghum,
whereby the mountain man paid for the use of the mill in
cash or cane; today there is the Sorghum Association which
helps the mountaineer market his product. There is even
288 Blue Ridge Country
a Blackberry Association whose trucks drive to the very
door and load up every gallon a family can pick.
Conservation is evident on every side and mountain
people are realizing the benefits in dollars.
Where once timbering was carried on in an appallingly
wasteful manner, reforestation under the guidance of
trained leaders is under way. Camps of the CCC dot the
whole southern mountain region and fruits of their efforts
can be seen in the growing forests on many a mountain
side. In Mammoth Cave National Park alone 2,900,000
seedlings were planted to stay gulley erosion in an area
of 3,000,000 square yards.
i Mountain boys who have entered CCC camps are rated
high in obedience, deportment, and adaptability to sur
roundings. Some of them have never been away from
home before. Many have been no farther than the nearest
county seat.
Frequently the mother back home can neither read nor
write but she shows with pride a letter from her son. "My
boy s in the Three C s. He s writ me this letter. Read with
your own eyes." You see her glow with genuine pride of
possession as you read aloud perhaps the hundredth time
she has heard it the boy s letter. The mother shows it
to everyone who crosses her threshold there in the Dug
Down Mountains of Georgia. There is another letter too.
"Johnny s captain writ this one." She knows them apart
even though she does not know A from B. "Johnny s cap
tain has writ moughty pretty about our boy." So well does
the old mother know the content of the letters she is ready
to prompt if the* visitor omits so much as a single word
in the reading. And when Johnny came home, after his
first months of service were ended, he was hailed as a cotf-
quering hero by family and neighbors alike. The mother
Reclaiming the Wilderness 289
was proudest of all. "Look at this-here contrapshun." From
the well-ordered case in the boy s trunk she brought out
a toothbrush. "He s larnt to scrub his teeth with this-here
bresh and" she added with unconcealed satisfaction "he
don t dip no more. Ton my honor he s about wheedled
me into the notion of givin up snuff. But when a body s
old and drinlin like I m getting to be dipping is a pow
erful comforting pastime."
The mountain boy s older brothers and father too have
come to understand co-operation. They can work with
others. They know the meaning of WPA folklore. When
the boss calls out jovially, "Come and grab it, boys!" they,
who have never heretofore worked by the clock, know
dinner time is up and they must start back to work. When
the head of the work crew calls out "Hold! Hold! Hold!"
they know a fuse of dynamite is about to be lighted to
blast the rock from the mountain side and they hurry to
safety. "Dynamite is powerful destructuous!" one tells the
other, and they remain at safe distance until again the boss
of the crew calls out "All right!" and they are back with
pick and shovel.
The mountaineer has become a good steel worker, a
dairyman in the foothills, a good mill hand.
The old folk, however, still cling to the old order of
things. Once there was an old schoolmaster in the southern
mountains who refused to give up teaching from the Mc-
Guffey Readers despite the fact that legislation had ruled
out the old familiar classics. So persistent was he in his
decision it eventually brought on a heart attack which
caused his death.
Men of the hills have been quite baffled by CIO and
other union cards. Young men first joining the CIO were
heard to boast, "We can have anything we want The CIO
290 Blue Ridge Country
is going to buy me and my woman and the kids a nice,
fine, pretty home. Pay all our bills if we get sick."
Only a few short years ago in a coal camp in West Vir
ginia a mountain man, who was then working at public
works for the first time, found himself haled into court
at the county seat on some misdemeanor charge. When
asked "Who is the President of the United States?" he un
hesitatingly gave the name of the sheriff who had arrested
him. So long had his family lived apart that he knew noth
ing of the workings of his own government and nothing
about the various offices, high and low. Yet in the family
burying ground of that mountain man inscriptions on the
tombstones of his ancestors show that three of them served
with distinction in the War of the Revolution.
Lest the coining generation forget the ways of their for
bears and the America for which men struggled and died
the America of yesterday the scene is being faithfully re
constructed in various ways in national parks. The boys
of the CCC camps are having a very important hand in
reconstruction and conservation.
Some years ago a nephew of Fiddling Bob Taylor of
Tennessee met with several friends on hallowed ground
in that State, not for a patriotic celebration but merely
for the joy of roaming in the great out-of-doors. The ex-
governor s kinsman, like his forbears, had been born on
the site where in 1772 the first step was made in American
independence by the Watauga Association. This autumn
day these sons of those early patriots fell to talking of the
country, its scenic beauty, its resources particularly in the
mountain region. "Fitting shrines set in the beauty of the
great out-of-doors are* the finest monuments to our pa
triots, it seems to me," said one. Another said, "The
world s history shows that from the time of creation the
Reclaiming the Wilderness 291
successful men were those who really loved the out-of-
doors. Abraham was a nomad whose home was wherever
he pitched his tent. Moses sought the silence and solitude
of Midian before God could speak to him. David was a
shepherd boy on the Judean hills. Elijah dwelt in a cave.
In the New World we see Washington, the surveyor, a
lover of the out-of-doors; Thomas Jefferson, finding hap
piness and contentment in roaming the hills of Virginia;
the immortal Lincoln, coming from the backwoods of
humble parents; Theodore Roosevelt, cowboy on the
plains of our western country."
With a smile Fiddling Bob s nephew turned to his
friends, "Fellows, I ll wager there s not one among them
from Abraham down to Teddy but would enjoy a canter
over a good highway to take a look at the Blue Ridge
Country. The most beautiful forests and parks in the
world. Ought to link *em up with a highway."
"Not a bad idea," chorused the friends, and they took
another round of mint juleps to celebrate the birth of a
thought.
"Ideas grow and thoughts travel fast," Fiddling Bob s
nephew remarked some years later when setting out on a
cross-country journey. "The Park-to-Park Highway grows
annually and this Skyline Drive, which is a part of the
plan, is one of the most alluring of all modern roads."
Starting at Front Royal, the northern entrance to the
Shenandoah Valley Park, it continues to Rockfish Gap
near Waynesboro on the south, a distance of 107 miles.
It is a broad mountain highway following the crest of the
Blue Ridge, invading a world that was remote and known
only to mountain folk. Today over its smooth, paved sur
face cars climb quickly to airy heights from which may be
viewed innumerable vistas of the Piedmont plateau and
292 Blue Ridge Country
the Shenandoah Valley. At strategic points parking over
looks have been constructed, from which are seen tum
bling waterfalls, deep and narrow canyons, cool shady
forests, open meadows, and wild flowers of every shade
and hue throughout the summer. Autumn presents a
boundless riot of color and winter a snowy, sparkling
blanket pierced by tall green pines.
The Skyline Drive links with the Blue Ridge Parkway
at Rockfish Gap which will at last connect the Shenan
doah National Park with the Great Smoky Mountain Na
tional Park in North Carolina and Tennessee.
"In case you don t know," Fiddling Bob s nephew likes
to remind a stranger, "Shenandoah Valley Park was pre
sented by Virginians to the nation in 1935 and more than
three million dollars have been spent on the Skyline Drive
alone a drive that hasn t a parallel in America. Through
this wilderness the Father of his County once trudged on
foot as a surveyor and looked down upon the beauty of
the Shenandoah Valley from the lofty peaks of the Blue
Ridge. His was the task to survey lands for the oncoming
settlers. He had no moment to explore under the earth.
That was the task of later men. Today for good measure,
after you have beheld the breath-taking beauty from the
heights, just travel seven eighths of a mile from Front
Royal to the Skyline Caverns where you ll see the most
unusual cave flowers that roan has ever looked upon.
Why" Fiddling Bob s nephew puffs vehemently on his
corn-cob pipe "do you know that Dr. Holden, he s pro
fessor of Geology at VPI, says these Hellicitites, that s
what he calls em, these weird, fantastic, and pallid forms^
warp scientific judgment. And, friends, it s nature s work,
these inconceivable structures hidden from the world for
millions of years down under the ground."
Reclaiming the Wilderness 293
He turned with a beaming countenance when we had
emerged from the cavern of matchless wonders. "Young
Americans don t have to study geography books these
days. All they have to do is get a second-hand car, fill it
up, and strike out on the Park-to-Park Highway. They ll
get an eyeful and an earful too from native sons, and learn
more about America than they can dig out of the dry
pages of a book in a year. Why, right down there at Char-
lottesville there s Ash Lawn where James Monroe lived
and meditated. His friend, Thomas Jefferson, set about
building the place in 1798 while Monroe was in France
looking after Uncle Sam s business. Even great and busy
men in those days were neighborly. Thomas Jefferson did
a good part by his neighbor James Monroe when he built
that house, and the ambassador thanked him generously
when he came back to occupy the place. The two used to
roam the grounds together and spent many happy hours
there. They visited to and fro; you see Monroe lived across
yonder within sight of his friend s home. The great of the
past take on reality when you actually set foot upon the
ground they have trod. Places come to life when we see
them with our own eyes. That s the purpose of these great
highways, the Park-to-Park highways that connect the
scenes of American history."
As the terrain changes there is a great variety in the
scenes along Skyline Drive. Sometimes the road leaves
the crest to tunnel through a rocky flank of mountain and
you come unexpectedly upon sparkling streams tumbling
down the mountain side to the valley below. The eye fol
lows the cascade to the very edge of the drive. It disap
pears beneath the wide surface and reappears beyond a
rocky wall, cascading down and down to fertile valleys
below.
294 Blue Ridge Country
Virginians, and people of the Blue Ridge generally,
count one of their greatest prides the restoration of the
capital at Williamsburg through the generosity of John
D. Rockefeller, Jr. Old and young who pass through the
graceful wrought-iron gates to the Governor s Palace
thrill at the sight of the restored colonial capital named
for King William III, a scene which all in all reflects old
England in miniature, "as the state of mind of its citizens
reflected the grandeur that was to be America." Here are
the stocks in which offenders were locked while they suf
fered jibes from passing tormentors. Elegant coach-and-
four remind the visitor of days of grandeur of Old Vir
ginia when the FFV s were entertained at the royal palace.
Across the way is the wigmaker s shop, and the craft house,
displaying the Wolcott Collection of ancient tools and in
struments. Here too is seen the Wren building, oldest aca
demic structure in English America, "first modeled by Sir
Christopher Wren."
Even a youngster of the Blue Ridge knows about York-
town where Lord Cornwallis surrendered in 1781. "Here s
where we fit and plum whopped the life outten the red
coats/ we overheard a mountain boy from a mission
school boasting to his companions.
Within a few short hours I had left behind Old Virginia
and its reminders of colonial days and crossed into the
Mountain State.
"There s plenty of beauty and culture in Old Virginia,
I m not denying that" Bruce Crawford looked over his
spectacles at his inquisitive visitor "but there s just as
much on this side of the Blue Ridge. We ve got as many
wonders under the earth as above it. And" he turned now
in his swivel chair in his quarters in the Capital to look
far up the Kanawha River among the many duties of this
Reclaiming the Wilderness 295
Fayette County man is that of letting the world know
about his state "I m not forgetting Boone roved these
parts. Trapped and hunted right here on the Kanawha.
But what I started to talk about was not the hills, the
rivers, and the caves, but the people." He spoke slowly,
deliberately, this sturdy, well-groomed hillsman. like Ser
geant York of the Tennessee Mountains Bruce Crawford
can, if need be, drop easily back into the dialect of his
people. And he is an accomplished writer. "I don t care
enough about it to follow the profession of writing," he
said, and fire glowed in his gray eyes. "But as old Uncle
Dyke Garrett used to say, 1 takened all I could a while
back from furriners so I cut loose and wrote my notions
about it and it was published in the West Virginia Review.
Take it along with you on your travels through the Moun
tain State and see if IVe come near hitting center."
It seems to me he came mighty near hitting center and
with Bruce Crawford s permission, here are his sentiments:
"In recent weeks two ignorant jibes were flung at the
State of West Virginia, one by a Southern editor and the
other by a Northern cartoonist.
"The editor, a Virginian, moaned that rude mountain
eers had routed Democrats of the old Southern type* from
the Capital on the Kanawha and that the Lost Cause was
lost all over again. He was still sad because Senator Mat
thew M. Neely had been elected Governor on a platform
to restore democracy to the Democratic Party, and gov
ernment to the governed, in West Virginia.
"The cartoonist represented us by a stock hillbilly char
acter with bushy beard and rifle in hand, gunning for
someone around the mountains.
"Both editor and cartoonist have their heads in the
sands of the past.
296 Blue Ridge Country
"West Virginians are Mountaineers by geography and
tradition, and proud of it. Originally they were induced
by wily Virginians to come into these mountains and form
a buffer back-country against Indians, French and British.
Here they grew sturdy, self-reliant and independent. They
fought the first and last battles of the American Revolu
tion, as well as the first land engagement of the war to
preserve the Union. They were shooting for liberty while
Patrick Henry was still shouting for it among appeasers of
King George. A continental commander, it is told, refused
to enlist more volunteers from the Colonies, saying he
had plenty of West Virginians. General Washington, too,
thought these mountaineers were tops, for in a dark hour
of the Revolution he said: Leave me but a banner to
place upon the mountains of West Augusta, and I will
gather around me the men who will lift our bleeding
country from the dust and set her free.
"These mountaineers saved piedmont and tidewater
Virginia from Indians, helped win the American inde
pendence, and made possible the opening up of Kentucky
to the West. They then expected a fair deal from the Vir
ginia Government, but they did not get it. So when Vir
ginia seceded from the Union, they seceded from Virginia.
And proudly they adopted the motto, Mountaineers are
always free/ a sentiment so generally subscribed to that
it appears over the entrance to our penitentiary.
"The slurs persist through ignorance.
"True, we have had all-out clan wars. We have had vio
lent chapters in our industrial story, under state govern
ments apparently considered benevolent by the Virginia
editor. We tolerated waste of both human and material
resources under wild individualism. But a new day has
come, promising the greatest good to the greatest number,
Reclaiming the Wilderness 297
and we shall have much to advertise, as envisioned in Gov
ernor Neely s inaugural address when he said:
" Fortunately impoverished land can be reclaimed; de
nuded areas can be reforested; unnecessary stream pollu
tion can be prevented; and in our purified watercourses
fish can be made to thrive. . . . For our posterity and our
selves, we must restore as much as possible of the match
less heritage which we wasted as improvidently as the base
Indian who threw away a pearl that was richer than all
his tribe. ... If to West Virginia scenery, which is sur
prisingly diversified and transcendently beautiful, we add
the lure of fully restored forests, fish and game, the State
will eventually become a happy hunting ground for the
sportsman; a paradise for the tourist; and the home of
prosperity more abundant than we have ever known/
"Progress toward these aims is being made under the
direction of various heads.
"In addition to mining areas producing more soft coal
than any other state, plus our varied manufactures, we
have fertile valleys and slopes from which ... an increas
ing harvest is reaped. The State s diversity of activity
should, in the fullness of time, make West Virginia the
most progressive, the most socially balanced, and there
fore the most truly civilized State in the Union.
"Our road system is being rapidly improved. . . . Many
of our historic and scenic spots and recreational areas,
hitherto locked in the uplands, are easily reached as more
and more tourists travel pioneer trails on modern high
ways.
"All these things now are being discovered, or soon
should be, by the whole Nation. Ours is the Vacationland
at the Crossroads of the East.
"Just as IB other times of national peril the human and
298 Blue Ridge Country
material resources of this region figured indispensably, so
today its great strength will be used against the Hitler
menace. . . . West Virginia, with its industrial develop
ment and strategic isolation from attack, may become the
Defense Hero of a war in which states little and large have
fallen before the juggernaut of tyranny. Again, as in the
time of Washington, the Nation may look to these West
Virginia hills, and plant here the oriflamme of freedom.
"Let us sing of the soft, folded beauty of the Alleghenies;
of rivers roaring with primeval discontent and streams
crystal-clear (save those running red from wounded hills);
of Edenlike forests in Monongahela s million acres; of
Ohio s fertile valley, placid and hill-bordered, where once
"warwhoop and savage scream echoed wild from rock and
hill ; of clean-trimmed rolling landscapes of Eastern Pan
handle, famed for history and old houses; of lovely pas
toral valleys of the South Branch, Greenbrier and Tygart;
of wild, boulder-strewn New River Canyon; of Webster s
forest monarchs and her deep, cool woods; of the brown
waters of Gauley that move evermore where the tulip tree
scatters its blossoms in Spring*; of the green hills mirrored
in starlit Kanawha; of white-splashing Blackwater Falls,
awe-inspiring Grand View, enchanting Seneca Rocks, and
the remote Smoke Hole region with its Shangri La in
habitants,
"Sing of our rhododendron and its dark-green, wax-like
leaf and purple flower; of Mingo s mighty oak that weath
ered six hundred winters; of our highest peak, Spruce
Knob, bony above the lush forest; of Cranberry Glades
and their strong plants native to Equator and Pole; brac
ing altitudes, averaging highest east of the Mississippi.
"Sing a lay for the strawberries of Buckhannon, buck
wheat of Kingwood, our lowly but uprising spud, tobacco
Reclaiming the Wilderness 299
at Huntington, and the wine-smell of orchards in Berke
ley; for the horses of Greenbrier, Herefords of Hamp
shire, sheep on Allegheny slopes, deer in a dozen State
Parks, and bears in the pines of Pocahontas.
"Sing of timber, iron and steel; of coal heaved by
brawny miners into the bituminous bin of the Nation;
of oil gushers and gas flow; of vitrolite and chromium,
plastics and neon, rayon and nylon; of glass stained for
cathedrals of Europe; of billions of kilowatts from coal,
and potentially more water power; of fluorescent bulbs at
Fairmont, and poisonous red flakes in the Kanawha sky
from metallurgical plants fire poppies blooming in the
night.
"Sing of deeds and events of deathless renown; of Mor
gan Morgan and his first white settlement at Bunker Hill;
of James Riimsey and his steamboat on the Potomac; of
Chesapeake and Ohio s epic completion across the State
in 73 to the tune of legendary John Henry s steel-driving
ballad in Big Bend tunnel; of turnpikes, taverns and toll
houses long abandoned; of our leaders, Negro and white,
in business, industry, education, religion and government;
of our stalwarts of union labor whose vision, social com
prehension and courage helped to bring a new day for all;
of our cherished democracy, flexible and self-righting in
a world where popular rule is a rarity.
"I have catalogued in clumsy prose what a Thomas Dunn
English or a Roy Lee Harmon could peel off in crisp, sing
ing lines. Surely we have gifted souls who can illumine
our story in song the story of Mountaineers Always Free,
of West Virginians always Mountaineers for a better un
derstanding by the country at large ... of this land of
heroic past, exhilarating present, and promising future."
300 Blue Ridge Country
A journey through the Mountain State convinces the
traveler that on her side of the Blue Ridge West Virginia
offers as many wonders under the earth as above it, if one
is not a claustrophobe. There s Gandy Sinks where my
friends of the Speleological Society were trapped by a cloud
burst on August i, 1940; and Seneca Caverns, in Monon-
gahela National Forest, once the refuge of Seneca Indians
about twenty miles west of Franklin on U. S. Route 33,
and six miles from Spruce Knob. Caves as unbelievably
beautiful as the Luray Caverns of Virginia, where the
great council room of the Seneca tribe remains as it was
in the day of the redskins. There is even a legend about
Snow Bird, the only daughter of Bald Eagle and White
Rock, his wife. Inside the cavern, if you look carefully,
there is to be seen the outline of the lovely face of Snow
Bird on the great stone wall. There are a Wigwam, and
an Iceberg, an Alligator, and the Golden Horseshoe and
Balcony of the Metropolitan, all in natural stone forma
tion.
West Virginia has developed 84,186 acres in its state-
park and forest system. Sparkling rivers flow throughout
the state. At the junction of the Ohio and Kanawha
Rivers where Daniel Boone once roamed there is a monu
ment commemorating the battle of the Revolution be
tween colonial troops and Indians- Here too are the graves
of a woman scout, "Mad Anne" Bailey, and a Shawnee
chieftain, Cornstalk. There are hundreds of miles of trails,
safe underfoot, but flanked by as wild and rugged lands
as ever infested by the Indian.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 301
VALLEY OF PARKS
If Dr. Walker, the English explorer, should return to
the earth today and visit the Big Sandy country near the
point where he first entered the state of Kentucky, he d
be amazed at the sight which would greet his eyes. Cities
have sprung up where once was wilderness. Yet one
natural beauty of the country remains unchanged: the
great gorge made by Russell Fork of Levisa Fork of the
Big Sandy, breaking through the mountain at an eleva
tion of 2800 feet The Breaks of Big Sandy. Here in the
days of the Civil War many thrilling episodes took place
and through The Breaks a Confederate regiment trekked
back to Virginia leaving behind a string of Democratic
counties in its wake.
Recently added to Jefferson National Forest, another
link in the chain of Park-to-Park highways, The Breaks
of Big Sandy is the most picturesque and historic spot
in eastern Kentucky. It is located on State Route 80, just
thirty miles from Pikeville where many of the McCoys
live peaceably today. Kentucky, with the mother state
Virginia, is planning a better and broader highway to
The Breaks, which will readily connect it with the Mayo
Trail. And the native sons still dwelling in the hills, aided
by their neighbors representing them in state and federal
offices, are busily planning an improvement program for
the area in which The Breaks are embraced.
Once the Dark and Bloody Ground, Kentucky today is
fairly teeming with reawakening. Her people are hasten
ing to bring from hidden coves things once discarded as
fogey, "We aim for this generation to know how thrifty
and apt their forbears were," is frequently heard from
302 Blue Ridge Country
their lips. In historic Levi Jackson Wilderness Road State
Park (U. S, 25), near London, there is an old cider press.
Far back in 1790 William Pearl, one of the early settlers
in Laurel County, made and set up the crude press for
making cider, or brandy if he chose. The press rests on a
stone base five feet wide. Happily, Pearl s great-grandson
was wise enough to preserve the relic and present it to
the park. Within the park also is Frazier s Knob, the
highest point in the state of Kentucky. On the banks of
Little Laurel flowing through the park one may see an
old-time watermill in full operation. And if you have a
bit of imagination youll wait your turn and take home
a poke of meal and have cornbread for supper.
Through this region now The Valley of Parks Boone
blazed his famous trace and Governor Shelby built the
first wagon road through the wilderness from infant Ken
tucky to Mother Virginia. Along the way a pleasant re
minder of an almost forgotten past is that of the Wilder
ness Road Weavers busy at loom and wheel. They process
cloth from wool and flax before your eyes and explain
with care the art of making homemade dyes from herb
and bark. An older woman pauses with shuttle in hand.
"See the hollow tree off yonder, a mother and her babe
hid there to escape the Indians. And the cabin over there
with the picketin" fence around, that s our library now
and we ve got all sorts of curiosities there too." A visit
within reveals the curiosities to be relics of early home
arts and mountain industries.
Cumberland Falls, Kentucky s Million Dollar State
Park, of 593 acres, was a gift of T. Coleman du Pont and
family of Delaware; its chief attraction is the Falls, once
called Shawnee, with the profile of an Indian plainly to
be seen in jutting rock over which the roaring cataract
Reclaiming the Wilderness 303
plunges near Qorbin and Williamsburg. In this once Dark
and Bloody Ground there is amazing beauty; on July ist,
1941, Mammoth Cave, the twenty-sixth National Park, was
dedicated with imposing ceremonies, adding another link
to the Park-to-Park plan. If it had not been fof the salt
peter from this cave the Battle of New Orleans would have
been lost, for from this mineral gunpowder that saved the
day was made. So vast is one of its caverns, the Snowball
Dining Room, 267 feet underground, that hundreds of
members of .the Associated Press held a dinner there in
1940. Mammoth Cave is reached by IL S. Highway 70,
west from Cave City, and one hundred miles south of
Louisville. The vast national park of which it is a part is
watered by the Green River, known to early explorers.
Kentucky s most talked-of cave in recent years is that
in which Floyd Collins lost his life in 1925. The tons of
rock in Sand Cave under which he was trapped did not
cause his death, however. Collins died of pneumonia. His
body now lies buried in Crystal Cave, which was Floyd s
favorite of all those he had spent his life in exploring.
One travels cross country from Crystal Cave to the Blue
Grass on Russell Cave Road, along with some of the
45,000 other people who have come within a single year
to see Man o War, the most famous race horse of all
times. "The Blue Grass region of Kentucky," says Prof.
E. S. Good, head of the department of animal husbandry
of the University of Kentucky, "is the premier breeding
ground for light horses because of its ample rainfall, mild
climate, abundance of sunshine and a soil rich in calcium
and phosphorus, so necessary to produce superior bone,
muscle and nerve/
Though mountain men are proud to own a good pair
of mules and will praise the merits of this lowly beast
304 Blue Ridge Country
without stint, they generally know or care little about
blooded race horses. They take pride in less glamorous
possessions. For instance, they are proud that in their
midst the McGuffey Readers were still taught by an aged
schoolmaster in defiance of legislation which barred the
classics and that the little log school in which he taught is
the first and only shrine in Kentucky to the illustrious
educator, Dr. William Holmes McGuffey, who compiled
the Eclectic Readers which gave the children o America
a different, brighter outlook upon life back in those dark
days of Indian warfare. The McGuffey Log School shrine
stands not far from the mouth of Big Sandy River in Boyd
County. Each year hundreds of McGuffey enthusiasts make
a pilgrimage to the humble shrine of learning.
"We ve got no end of fine sights to see." Mountain folk
are justly boastful. "Down at Bardstown is the Talbott
Tavern built 162 years ago, one of the first such taverns
where travelers could tarry west of the . Alleghenies. On
the walls there are the marks of bullets left by the pistols
of Judge John Rowan, who fought a duel with Dr. Cham
bers and mortally wounded him. There s" Audubon Memo
rial State Park with all manner of paintings, books, and
pictures left by Audubon, kin of a French King, who spent
many a happy day roaming the hills of Kentucky and
studying the ways of wild birds. And no country can claim
a greater man than was born right here at Hodgenville,
and even if we didn t have a memorial built out of stone
to Abraham Lincoln he will live in our hearts as long as
the world stands." The mountaineer who sings the praises
of his native land eyes his listener attentively. "Bless you,
folks are so friendly and kind of heart in Kentucky they
even have a refuge for turkeys. There is a sanctuary for
this native American fowl in the Kentucky Woodlands
Reclaiming the Wilderness 305
Wildlife Refuge just west of Canton. And to make sure
the wild creatures do not starve there are vast unharvested
crops grown on the cleared land and left for them to feed
upon. Here too, if travelers will drive slowly along the
wooded trails, they are most sure to come upon a startled
deer, for there are more than 2000 roaming in the wood
land."
Along with other traditions there survives in Kentucky
the medieval rite of blessing the hounds which takes place
usually on the first Saturday in November. In his clerical
robes the Bishop of Lexington, in the heart of the Blue
Ridge, performs the ceremony much in the manner of the
prelates of ages past. With proper solemnity the bishop
bestows upon each huntsman the medal of St. Hubert,
patron of the hunt, while the gay-coated hunters stand
with bowed heads and the hounds, eager for the hunt,
move restlessly about the feet of their masters.
Across the Blue Ridge in the Carolinas fox hunting and
horseback riding are sports as popular as in Kentucky. But
above all the things in which the people of the Carolina
mountains lead are their matchless handicrafts, weaving,
spinning, and their skill in play-making.
Who hasn t heard of "Prof/* Koch, Director of the
Carolina Playmakers and of the group s plays? And the
thing about the Playmakers which sets them apart is that
they are chiefly of the mountains. Their plays are made
out of the life of mountain folk. Archibald Henderson
declares, "Koch is the arch-foe of the cut-and-dried, the
academic, the specifically prescribed. All his life he has
demanded room for the random, outlet for the unex
pressed, free play for the genius." Nowadays he travels by
caravan with his Carolina Playmakers from coast to coast
that the world may see for itself what genius unrestrained
306 Blue Ridge Country
can turn out. If one wishes to see them in their own set
ting, which thousands of us do every year, there is The
Playmakers Theatre at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, the
first theater building in America to be dedicated to the
making of its own native drama.
"This love of drama is in the blood of Carolinians," they
themselves will tell you. "Get three of them together and
before you can say Jack Robinson they re building a play.
A folk play, each one with an idea, a situation. Why, right
over to Kernersville in North Carolina the first little the
ater was born. And say, if you want to hear ballad singers,
stop wherever you re a-mind to in the Blue Ridge in the
Carolinas and keep your ears open. There s a fellow over
on South Turkey Creek, little more than a dozen miles
as the crow flies from Asheville, and you ll hear the finest
singing of old-time ballads you ever listened to. Mostly
menfolks like best to sing. Womenfolks turn to the loom,
particularly in North Carolina."
A visit to the Weave Shop at Saluda convinces the visitor
of the skill of mountain women. Fabrics of unbelievable
beauty are turned out at handlooms and it is mountain
women who lead in the work*
Much has been written on the subject of handicrafts
but perhaps the most comprehensive treatment of the di
versified subject is Allen Eaton s Handicrafts of the South
ern Highlands.
Through Allen Eaton s knowledge of handicrafts and
his untiring efforts a great service has Jbeen rendered the
mountain people of the Blue Ridge in marketing their
wares. For he has been instrumental in organizing a han
dicraft guild which serves the entire southern mountain
region. The co-operating units cover various phases of
handicraft. The Shenandoah Community Workers of Bird
Reclaiming the Wilderness 307
Haven specialize in toy making, while The Jack Knife
Shop of Berea College, the Woodcrafters and Carvers of
Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the Whittlers at the John C.
Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, North Carolina, em
brace most every type of handicraft in their output which
is the work of mountain boys and girls.
It was to mountain people that George Washington
looked for hope and help in the hour of our country s
need, and two later presidents held the same opinion.
The mother and the wife of a president of these United
States have done likewise.
One winter day more than a score of years ago a group
of children huddled about the pot-bellied stove in a little
log church in the mountains of Georgia. They had trudged
through snow and mud and a cold, biting wind to reach
this one-room church house. Though the older folk were
eager to teach the children lessons of Scripture, few of
them could read or write. A mountain child, like every
other child, delights in hearing an older person read,
whether it be a make-believe story or a real story from the
Bible. "Wisht you could read the Word," an eager little
girl this winter day said to the old woman who, though
she could neither read nor write, was doing her best to
explain from a small colored leaflet the meaning of the
Sunday School lesson.
The story reached the ears of a lady not far away. After
that she began reading Bible stories to the mountain chil
dren gathered at a little log cabin near her home. "Martha
Berry didn t need eye specs to see how eager the children
were for learning," one of her mountain friends remarked,
"and then and there she began to ruminate through her
mind a way to help them help themselves, Not to be min
istered unto, but to minister/ that was what Martha Berry
308 Blue Ridge Country
said from the very first and that is still the motto of the
great institution that has steadily grown up from the
humble beginning in a little one-room log house."
It is an unusual institution of learning with a campus
equally unique, for in its 25,000 acres are a forest, a moun
tain, and a lake and more than one hundred buildings
which were not only erected by Berry students, but built
from materials also made by them. Here mountain boys
and girls express the fine spirit of independence inherited
from their forbears. Once they enter the Gate of Oppor
tunity, they earn their education. The mountain boy, with
his carpentry, brick-making, stock-raising, hand-carving,
matches his skill in friendly rivalry with the girl, in her
spinning and weaving, making dyes and canning fruits. In
one year the girls canned 50,000 gallons of fruit grown
within the boundary of the Berry Schools.
Boys and girls of the Georgia mountains need not de
spair nor be backward while the "Sunday Lady of Possum
Trot" keeps open the Gate of Opportunity to the Berry
Schools.
"There s a heap of change here in these mountains for
our children. If a child s afflicted in its nether limbs, it
don t need to lay helpless no more, a misery to itself and
everyone else. There s the waters of Warm Springs and
doctors with knowing that are there to help them on foot,"
a mountain mother told me last winter when I stopped
at her cabin. "Take the night," she urged. "You can get
a soon start in the morning, if you choose." I accepted her
hospitality and she told me much of her early life there
and of crippled children of the mountains who had been
restored through bloodless surgery. Of one boy in par
ticular she told who for long years had never walked a
step until he had been brought to the healing salt waters.
Reclaiming the Wilderness 309
"He can drive a car now and climb a mountain on foot.
He drove an old couple that had bought a new car all the
way from Warm Springs plum acrost the State of Georgia
and back again so s he could travel the Franklin D.
Roosevelt Highway. It give him something to brag about
when he got back home." The old woman lifted her eyes
to the hills reflectively. "There have been a heap of people
in this country who stood in the light of their afflicted
children claiming it was the Good Lord s will that they
were so and that it was a deep-dyed sin to try to change
them. Some claimed it was a sin against the Holy Ghost
to carve upon their crooked little limbs and shed their
life s blood even though it might make them to walk.
Folks with such notions as that are plum in benighted
darkness. But times have changed and it s learning and
good roads that make it. Nohow, there are doctors now
with a heap of learning who can straighten twisted joints
of crippled children and never shed their life s blood. Not
nary drop!" The old woman s eyes widened with in
credulity. "I ve seen crippled children packed away on a
slide plum helpless and come back home on foot as spry
as a wren and never a scar on their flesh. They ve got
knowing ways off yonder to Warm Springs where the doc
tors and nurse women, to lend a hand, straighten out the
twisted little bodies of many a crippled child. They do
say it is a sight to the world how them little crippled fel
lers can cavort around in the salty waters in no time, play
ful as minner fish in a sunny mountain brook. And they
never shed a drop of their life s blood. So you see there s
always a way around a mountain if you can t climb over
it. And by these new ways of learning the doctors and the
nurse women are not breaking faith with the belief of
310 Blue Ridge Country
mountain people. It s a great and a glorious gospel, I tell
you!"
If you climb to the top of a peak in Dug Down Moun
tains, a spur of the Blue Ridge that dwindles to a height
of 1000 feet in southeastern Alabama, and take a look at
the state provided the binoculars are strong enough
youll see why there s a saying down in that country to the
effect that "Alabama could sleep with her head resting
upon the iron-studded hills of her mineral district, her
arms stretched across fields of food and raiment, and her
feet bathing in the placid waters of Mobile Bay/
This Cornucopia of the South is not sleeping, however;
she is on her feet and bestirring herself and aware of her
almost limitless resources.
"She could dig beneath her surface and find practically
every chemical element required in the prosecution of
modern war. . . . She could fire her guns with 7,529,090
pounds of explosives produced annually in her mineral
mines. ... In her hour of victory, she could declare her
self the Queen of the Commonwealth, mold her diadem
with gold from Talladega, and embellish it with rubies
from the bed of the Coosa that drains the Dug Down foot
hills of the Blue Ridge." ,
In short, her native sons like to boast, "Alabama could
isolate herself from all the world and live happily forever
after."
And lest they forget the past, the first White House of
the Confederacy, where Jefferson Davis lived and ruled,
still stands, a grim reminder of the old South.
How amazed the pioneer dwellers of the Blue Ridge
would be if they could stalk down the mountain side and
Reclaiming the Wilderness 311
take a look at what Uncle Sam has been doing the past
eight years! Strange words too would fall upon their ears,
modern-made to suit modern things. What with good
roads and autos; hotels have sprung up thick as mush
rooms; so have motels. There s the Zooseum, combining
living curiosities and relics. Pleaz Mosley got together in
a corner of his farm a lot of Indian relics, petrified oddi
ties, and a few rare varmints, a five-legged calf and a one-
eyed possum, and housed them in a shack down by the
new road that cut through his bottom land and drew
sightseers day after day.
"But Pleaz s Zooseum can t hold a candle to the curiosi
ties down in the Holston and Tennessee River country,"
his neighbors say. "Looks like they just naturally turned
loose the briny deep in that country. When they started
in on the job old Grandpap up and spoke his mind. Said
he, Sich carryings on is destructuous of the Master s
handiwork and I don t countenance it/ He d set there by
his log fire in his house all his endurin life. The fire had
never went out on that hearth since he was borned and
he told the goverment he didn t aim the embers should
die down whilst he lived. Well, sir, to pacify the old man
they up and moved him, house, log fire and all, up higher
in the mountains and him a-settin right there by the fire
all the time. Now he can look down to them mighty
waters and them public works with his door open and
never jolt his chair away from the hearth."
If Daniel Boone could retrace his steps along the
Holston and Tennessee Rivers perhaps he would gape,
too flabbergasted to utter a word. Or he might ask in disr
may, "What s become of my elbow room?" The country
he once roamed with gun and dog has been transformed
into a mighty flooded area to make way for the world s
312 Blue Ridge Country
largest project of its kind. At first much was said back and
forth about the Tennessee Valley Authority. Some viewed
it with a dubious eye, called it names a New Deal experi
ment, a merchant of electricity, a threat to private owner
ship of business, or again merely a new series of letters in
alphabetical government, the TVA. To isolated moun
tain folk who came to look as time went on, it was the
plum biggest public works they had ever set eyes on.
Eight years after it was begunby the middle of 1941
with war threatening the civilized world, the TVA has
become a defense arm.
Uncle Sam at once cast his discerning eye down Ten
nessee way and his National Defense Advisory Committee
designated the TVA as one of its defense industries, and
an appropriation of $79,800,000 was granted the Author
ity, and a call from the defense power program went out
for TVA "to add to its system of ten multi-purpose dams
the Cherokee Power Dam on the Holston River, to build
another near the Watts Bar Dam and to advance work on
the Fort Loudoun Dam on the Tennessee River."
"About the only things unchanged are the caves under
the earth and the forests, I reckon," an old mountaineer
observes. "They won t never dig away them Great Smoky
Mountains, I m satisfied, though they ve got a roadway on
the very top from Newfound Gap Highway to Cling-
man s Dome. And they ve got what s left of the Cherokees
scrouged off to theirselves in Qualla Indian Reservation."
Wise and far-seeing men have looked to the preserva
tion of much of nature s beauty through the Great Smoky
Mountains National Park, which embraces Little Pigeon
Gorge, and Chimney Tops, which command a breath
taking view of the surrounding country.
"My grandfather journeyed miles on foot over these
Reclaiming the Wilderness 313
mountains/* a young man told me one day when I tar
ried at the Mountaineer s Museum in Gatlinburg on U. S.
Highway 71. "Look over yonder is Le Conte, the Grand-
pappy of Old Smoky Mountain as we say here in Ten
nessee." He turned about in the other direction. "And off
there the rushing waters of Little Pigeon turn an old-time
mill wheel."
Leaving the alluring sights of Little Pigeon I turned
the nose of my antiquated car toward U. S. Highway 2$E
to visit Cudo s Cave. It is electrically lighted and bright
as day. A cave that appears to be an endless chain of
rooms. Within are all manner of rock formations, a Pal
ace, a great Pipe Organ, even a reproduction of Capitol
Dome not made by mortal hand; Petrified Forests, Cas
cades that seem to be covered with ice, and a Pyramid
said to be eighty-five million years old. And in the midst
of these ageless wonders the names of Civil War soldiers
carved on the stone walls.
"If all this had been on top of the earth," my moun
taineer guide declared, "destructuous man would have
laid it waste long ago. Look about," he urged. "There s
every sort of varmint by the Master s Hand, from a possum
to an elephant, and even the likeness of the American
Outside the caves which lie under three states, Ken
tucky, Tennessee, and Virginia, you look down upon the
town of Cumberland Gap to the right of which are re
mains of Civil War trenches.
"There are wonders no end to be seen around this coun
try/ mountain people say, "and things maybe never
thought of anywhere else."
Perhaps that is not an unlikely statement, considering
the stirring event a few years ago that took place at Day-
314 Blue Ridge Country
ton, Tennessee, when Clarence Darrow and William Jen
nings Bryan argued the question of evolution pro and con.
Or when you know that at the little town o M odel across
the Tennessee River from Galloway County, Kentucky,
a quiet minister by the name of James M. Thomas, prints
his little paper from his own handmade type on his own
handmade press. It is a tiny paper called The Model Star
and it reaches the far corners of the earth. Most of its con
tent is of a religious nature, though there are a few adver
tisements. While it brings the minister little in financial
return he finds his recompense in the enthusiasm of read
ers scattered from Pitcairn Island to Cairo, Bucharest, and
Shanghai.
Tennesseeans have a way of doing unusual things. And
they are a religious people, especially those who have
spent their lives in mountain Coves. There s Sergeant
York. He admits he sowed his wild oats in his youth. "We
drinked and gambled," he says, "and we cussed and fit."
But when this giant mountaineer s eyes were opened to
the evil of his ways, after the death of his father, Alvin C.
York forsook his old habits once and for all. When the
World War came he declared himself a conscientious ob
jector. His church the Church of Christ in Christian
Union held that war was a sin. York had a terrific struggle
deciding his duty between God and patriotism. He loved
his God. He loved his country. He made every effort to
obtain exemption because he firmly believed it a sin to
fight and to kill, even for the sake of one s country. But
for all that, he could not gain exemption. Whereupon
York went aloneinto the mountains and fervently prayed
for guidance. When the voice of God pointed the way he
followed, with the result that all the world knows.
"You might call my escape from death purely a matter
Reclaiming the -Wilderness 315
of luck, but I know different/ he says. "It was faith in
God that kept me safe. I prayed that day alone on the
mountain and asked Him to bring me back home alive
and well and He did. I knowed He would. That s what
jfaith in God will do for a man."
Alvin York is a true mountain man. He seeks neither
praise nor self-glory. Upon returning from the World
War he spurned a fortune in pictures and vaudeville ap
pearances, refusing steadfastly to commercialize his war
record. And with the same determination he declined to
sell out to small politicians who tried to use him when he
undertook to raise funds to start a school for mountain
boys and girls. Knowing the need of the young people of
his Tennessee mountains, York has made his life purpose
to give them "a heap o larninV This he has continued
to do year af teivyear through the York Agricultural School
near Jamestown, Tennessee. Mountain folk call it Jim-
town. Now there s a highway running through the town
called York Highway.
Sergeant York likes to sing. He "takened lessons in
Byrdstown," and being especially fond of singing hymns,
he acquired the name of "The Singing Elder." He teaches
a Sunday School class and did even before he went to war.
He admits smilingly that his fight with "small politicians"^
who wanted to use him and his war record was a worse
battle than that of the Argonne Forest. Alvin York mar
ried his childhood sweetheart, Grade Williams, upon re
turning from war, and the Governor of Tennessee per
formed the ceremony at Pall Mall where the mountain
hero was born. He is the father of seven children. For
sometime he served as project superintendent at a CCC
camp in the Tennessee mountains* He is president emer
itus of the school he founded and has written his life s
316 Blue Ridge Country
story in a simple, straightforward way, with never the
slightest hint of boastfulness,
When it came to putting in parts of official records and
commendation of his heroism, Sergeant York did so re
luctantly. "But it has to be put in, I reckon." He finally
had to give in.
Sergeant York s achievement, capturing single-handed
132 Germans, killing 20 others, and destroying 35 ma
chine-gun nests stands unparalleled.
This tall, red-headed, freckled mountain man says mod
estly that he always was a pretty good shot and that he
kept in practice by hunting in the Tennessee mountains,
shooting turkeys and going to shooting matches that re
quired a pretty steady nerve to hit center of a criss-cross
mark.
"I m happiest here in the Valley of the Three Forks of
the Wolf," says the Singing Elder, "here in Fentress
County just across the Kentucky state line, once the happy
hunting ground of Creeks and Cherokees. Hit s the place
I love best with my family, my dogs and my gun. Hit s
where I belong."
Looking backward, history shows that mountain men,
such as Alvin York, have always led their countrymen in
time of war, as I have pointed out earlier. In the Civil
War the southern highlands sent 180,000 riflemen to the
Union Army. In the Spanish-American War they rushed
to the defense of our country. In the World War, Breathitt
County, known for its fighting blood, had no draft quota,
so many of her valiant sons hastened to volunteer. Though
mountain people have suffered the stigma of family feuds,
they have lived to see old rancors forgotten. Hatfields and
McCoys, Martins and Tollivers shoulder their muskets
Reclaiming the Wilderness 317
and march side-by-side when they have to defend their
native land.
The Big Sandy country is still filled with patriots. In
Floyd County, the father of eleven sons is not worried
about the draft, according to the Big Sandy News, No
vember 15, 1940: "Frank Stamper, Prestonsburg Spanish-
American War veteran, isn t worried about the draft
catching any of his eleven boys, six of whom are of draft
age. Five of the bra laddies already are infantrymen in
the U. S. Army enlisted men. The sixth, Harry, from
whom the family has not heard in nine years, may also
be in the army now, and not subject to conscription later.
Two of his sons Everett of Jackhorn, Kentucky, and
Avery of Ronda, West Virginia, were in the World War
as volunteers, and when you take in consideration that
Mr. Stamper himself was a volunteer in the Spanish-
American War, it makes the adult population of the
family about unanimous in the matter of patriotism. The
five sons in the army now are: Frank, Jr., Paul, Damon,
John and Charles. Mr. Stamper is the father of twenty-
seven children, seventeen of whom are living."
WHEN SINGING COMES IN, FIGHTING GOES OUT
Mountain folk, especially those who have had the mis
fortune of being mixed in troubles (feuds to the outside
world) believe earnestly that "when singing comes in,
fighting goes out." "Look at the Hatfields and McCoys,"
they say. "They make music together now at the home of
one side and now at the home of them on t other side.
They sit side-by-side on the bench at the Singing Gather
ing down on the "Mayo Trail come the second Sunday in
June every year. Off yonder nigh the mouth of Big Sandy,
318 Blue Ridge Country
across the mountains which once were stained with the
blood of both families. What s more, Little Melissy Hat-
field and Little Bud McCoy even sing together a ballad
that tells of the love of Rosanna McCoy for Devil Anse s
son Jonse. And their elders sing hymn tunes long cher
ished in the mountain church, whilst tens of thousands
gathered on the hills all around about listen with silent
rejoicing over the peace that has come to the once sorry
enemies/
To be sure, there is the singing of folk songs handed
down by word of mouth from generation to generation.
When the mountain people are asked the origin of their
music, the usual reply is "My grandsir larnt me this fiddle
tune/ or "My Granny larnt me this song-ballet/
Since mountain people have brought their music out
of the coves and hollows for the world to hear through
their Singing Gathering and Festivals, the nation is fast
becoming aware of the importance of folk music in the
life of Americans today. Great singers have taken up the
simple songs of our fathers. "Wipe out foes of morale with
music/ says Lucy Monroe, New York s "Star Spangled
Banner Soprano," director of patriotic music for RCA-
Victor, when she sang on September 11, 1941, before the
National Federation of Music Clubs in New York. "Let s
make certain that when the present crisis is passed, music
will have done its full job of defense/* she said enthusi
astically. The singer urged federation members to become
soldiers of music. "Let us enlist together to form a great
army of music!" she urged. Miss Monroe was commis
sioned by Mayor LaGuardia to devote her efforts to the
cause of musk for the Office of Civilian Defense. Where
upon she outlined a four-point program: i. To visit large
plants and industrial centers connected with defense work
Reclaiming the Wilderness 319
to give musical programs and to suggest tKat the plants
begin each day s activities with playing the Star-spangled
Bannerto tell the men what they are working for. 2. To
conduct community sings in large cities. 3. To collect
phonograph records for the boys in army camps, estab
lishing central depots in every locality in the country.
4. To give talks, with song illustrations, on the history
of United States of America in colleges, high schools,
women s clubs, and music clubs.
Though some may see folk song, the basis of all music,
endangered by motion pictures, Kurt Schindler, authority
on ancient European customs and collector of folk music
in other lands, believes the danger lies in another direc
tion. "The young students, the modernists, in their great
desire to keep up with the times wish to kill the old
things."
All the forces working in America to preserve folk song
should share Kurt Schindler s fears. The press is cognizant
of the farflung effort throughout the land. The Atlanta
Journal (September 19, 1928) says, "The collection and
preservation of mountain folk music is a singularly gra
cious work and one of rare value to history. Collected in
its natural environment, it is perforce authentic both in
tune and idiom, and sincere collectors are not content
with this alone they complete the record by tracing the
songs to their origins. Such is a most gracious work and
one which lovers of beauty, whether music or in legend
or in local history, throughout the South, would do well
to imitate/
Far removed from the metropolitan area where great
singers interpret the simple songs of our forbears and urge
the necessity of their preservation, an untrained mountain
minstrel is lending his every effort to aid not only in con-
320 Blue Ridge Country
serving but in correlating as well the folk lore of the Blue
Ridge Country. He is a kinsman of Devil Anse Hatfield
and lives just around the mountain from where the old
warrior lies buried. "Sid Hatfield never was mixed up in
the troubles in no shape nor fashion," anyone can tell
you. "He d not foir a gun if you laid one in his hand. But
just give him a fiddle! Why, Sid Hatfield is the music-
makinest fellow that ever laid bow to strings. What s
more he puts a harp in his mouth and plays it at the same
time he s sawin the bow. I ve seen him and hear-ed him,
many s the time."
And so have thousands of others. For Sid Hatfield spends
his spare time, when he s not working for the Appalachian
Power Company in Logan County, West Virginia, mak
ing music first at one gathering, then another. Sid s reper
toire is almost limitless. He plays any fiddle tune from
Big Sandy to Bonaparte s Retreat. And when it comes
to the mouth harp, Sid just naturally can t be beat. "I
love the old tunes," he says, "and they must not die. You
and I can help them to live. Let old rancors die, but not
our native song."
To that end he has become a prime mover in a folk
song and folk-lore conservation movement called Ameri
can Folkways Association. "There are a lot of McCoys,"
he says, "who can pick a banjo and sing as fine a ditty
as you ever heard. There s Bud McCoy over on Levisa
Fork. Never saw his betters when it comes to picking the
banjo. WeVe played together a whole day at a stretch
.and never played the same tune twice. We just stop long
enough to eat dinner and then we go at it again. Bud s
teaching his grandson, Little Bud, and he s not yet five
year old. Little Bud can step a hornpipe too. Peert as a
cricket!" A slow Wreaking smile lights Sid s open coun-
Reclaiming the Wilderness 321
tenance. "Reckon you ve heard of our Association," and,
not giving anyone time to answer, Sid is off on the subject
nearest and dearest to his heart. "We ve got the finest
Association in the country. Got a nephew of Fiddling Bob
Taylor in our Association and by hext summer we aim
to hold a Singing Gathering down in his countrythe
Watauga country in Tennessee. Folsom Taylor, that s his
name and he s living now in the far end of the Blue Ridge
in Maryland. He helped us with the Singing Gathering
we held in the Cumberlands in Maryland this past sum
mer. We ve got another helper down in Tennessee. His
name is Grady Snead. He was in the World War and about
lost his singing voice but he s not lost any of his spirit for
mountain music and old-time ways. Why, every summer
ever since Grady got back from the war he s gathered his
people around him in Snead s Grove he owns quite a
few acres down in Tennessee and they have an old-time
picnic and they have hymn singing and ballad singing
and fiddle music. This past summer our Association joined
in with them at the Snead picnic and you never saw the
like that day in Snead s Grove. People thick as bees and
pleased as could be. We started off a-singing a good old-
fashioned hymn all together and that put everybody in
good heart. Never saw such a picnic in all my born days.
There s nothing like a good old-fashioned all-day picnic
to make friends among people and then mix in a lot of
good old-time music. That s what Americans were brought
up on and that s what they re going to live on more and
more through these troubled hours and as time goes on."
That day at Snead s Grove, Sid Hatfield told them
about the Association and how already different organiza
tions had united with it. He told of a preacher over in
Maryland who had joined in whole-heartedly. "He s
322 Blue Ridge Country
adopted the great out-of-doors for his temple in which to
worship with song and prayer. Robinson is his name.
Reverend Felix Robinson, as fine a singer and as fine a
preacher as you d ever want to sit under."
Then Sid put down his fiddle and his mouth harp and
drawing from his coat pocket a crumpled paper, he began
again. "My friends, I want to read you this piece in the
Chicago Daily News. This is the place to read it. We ought
to be warned about what can happen in this country to
our music, by what has happened to some of our people.
Though maybe sometime it s been for the best. This piece
was writ by a mighty knowing man. His name is Robert J.
Casey and he flew from Chicago for his paper the Chicago
Daily News to hear with his own ears the music of the
mountains from the lips of mountain singers at Traipsin -
Woman cabin on the Mayo Trail the second Sunday in
June, 1938."
There was a moment s breathless silence over the great
gathering there in Snead s Grove. The look of fear and
apprehension gave way to that of eagerness and hope as
Devil Anse Hatfield s kinsman read with quiet dignity:
" One breathes a sigh for the Hatfields and McCoys
who maintain the Democratic majority in cemeteries along
the West Virginia line. One voices a word of commenda
tion for the Hatfields and the McCoys who drive taxi-
cabs in Ashland or run quiet, respectable and legal beer
parlors in Huntington. And looking from one group to
the other, one realizes that something has happened to
the hill country.
" A person of imagination standing on the tree-shaded
porch of the Traipsin Woman cabin up in Lonesome Hol
low probably still can hear echoes of "the singing gather
ing" which only a few hours ago demonstrated the essen-
Reclaiming the Wilderness 323
tial durability of the hill folks. . . . Where a day or two
ago there was only a neutral interest In such proceedings,
now people are talking of Elizabethan culture preserved
completely for a matter of centuries by people who lived
on the wrong side of the tracks, just a few rods from the
fence of the rolling mills.
" There is a tendency in some quarters to look upon
the sing-festival as a permanent and predictable com
munity asset. But that is because the sophisticated and
urban population is ignoring the present status of the
McCoys and the Hatfields, as for many years it has ignored
the crack-voiced "ballet" singers and the left-handed vir
tuosi in its own backyard/ "
Sid Hatfield paused in his reading to say a few words
on his own. "There is one, not calling any names, who
discovered a forgotten England in the Kentucky uplands."
He turned again to read from the paper. " One who set
down the words of the amazing ballads and studied music
in order to capture the changeless arrangements for psal
tery, dulcimer and sakbut, who has no such illusions. The
music of the hills today is a thin echo of tunes that were
sung on the village greens in Shakespeare s time. Tomor
row it will be gone! " Sid Hatfield s voice lifted in ward
ing. " And with it will vanish the early English idiom
of the hill folkstheir costumes, their customs, their
dances, the singing ritual of their weddings. Pretty soon
there aren t going to be any more hill folk-if indeed,
there are any now.
"The Hatfields and McCoys, they were reckless moun
tain boys," whose history is now as stale as that of the
Capone mob. Their feud, which . . . threatened to pro
voke a civil war between two states, gave rise to the gen
eral belief in the lasting endurance of the hill dwellers.
324 Blue Ridge Country
A race must be hardy as the ragweed when it could not be
exterminated even by its own patient effort. The tenantry
of the flatlands might be excused for believing that a spe
cial Providence intended it to survive, despite poverty,
malnutrition, bad housing and wasting disease forever and
ever.
" And so it might have survived, for the hill people
had "the habit of standing." They had set a precedent of
fertility and hardihood and the will to live for a matter
of centuries. . . . But there had come influences over
which not even the carefully nurtured stubbornness of
300 years could prevail. . . . The railroad and the con
crete highway and the automobile and the black tunnels
of the coal mine.
" . . - The day of isolated communities and isolated
culture in the United States is already past. . . . The
hill folk have been known to the flatland people chiefly
for feuds and moonshine. Perhaps tempers are no less
quick, but it s less trouble to get to court and have griev
ances adjudicated according to law. And the music is go
ingand the traditional dances. It is one of the defects of
all educational systems that they make it easier for a per
son to forget by removing the necessity for his remember-
ing/ "
Sid Hatfield again voiced his own observations. "Time
was when old folks could recall every word of hundreds
of ballads." He turned once more to read from the news
paper in his hand. " 4 . . . and every note of a music whose
disregard for melodic rule made it exceedingly difficult
to remember. Now, when such things can be written
down, no "grandsir" will bother to repeat them to the
youngins and the youngins will get their music from the
Reclaiming the Wilderness 325
radio. By that time there will be no doubt that Queen
Elizabeth is dead/ "
Devil Anse s kinsman surveyed his listeners. "My
friends, we ve got a-bound, me and you and you/ he
singled out a lad here a man, a woman there, "to put our
shoulders to the wheel and save our old ways and our old
music."
Then he told about the American Folkways Association
and its purpose. "We aim to unify efforts to conserve and
cultivate the traditions and customs of the Blue Ridge
Country where conditions are ideal for a renewed em
phasis on living a simple and natural life ... to preserve
the past and present expressions of isolated peoples in the
Southern Appalachians which are untainted by any form
of insincerity or make-believe. There is growing interest
among city-bred people in the folk-ways, and through re
search and actual experiences, they are learning to appre
ciate the simple folk-life that is still intact."
Sid, like Devil Anse, understands crowd psychology,
though neither calls it by that name. Sid had the attention
of his hearers and he told them more. We re getting our
eyes open more every day to the boundless treasures in
America. People all through the Blue Ridge don t aim
to stand by and see things disappear because new ways
have come in. They ve started all sorts of gatherings and
festivals to keep alive the things that mean America!"
With quick gesture he enumerated upon his fingers as
he named some of them: "There s the Forest Festival held
in October at Elkins, West Virginia, with a pretty moun
tain maid for its Queen; the Tobacco Festival in Shelby-
ville, Kentucky, that pays homage to the leading product
of the Blue Grass country, next to the race horse, of
course; there s the Mountain Laurel Festival at Pineville,
326 Blue Ridge Country
Kentucky, in May, glorifying the beauty and profusion
of the mountain flower; the Virginia Apple Blossom Fes
tival in April in the Shenandoah Valley at Winchester,
Virginiaa wilderness of blossoms that has made beauti
ful a once lonely valley; the Rhododendron Festival in
Webster Springs, West Virginia, in July, that vies in
charm with a like event in Kentucky; the Sweet Potato
Festival in Paris, Tennessee, that pays tribute to the yam;
the American Folk Song Festival in the foothills of Ken
tucky. Then there s the Snead Picnic that our good friend
Grady Snead has been carrying on every summer ever
since he got back from the war across the waters; there s
the Mountain Choir Festival over in Oakland, Maryland,
in the month of August, when hundreds of mountain boys
and girls gather together to sing hymns and old ballads
too; there s the Arcadian Folk Festival and the Poet s
Fair and the Arcadian Guild all bunched together at Hot
Springs National Park and McFadden Three Sisters
Springs where down in the Ozark Country folks welcome
the advent of the Moon of Painted Leaves and pattern
new dreams in the valley of pastoral fancy, listen to the
Pipes of Pan, meet old friends, and make new ones in a
sylvan environment, where poetry slides down every moon
beam. Every sort of gathering right where it belongs,
where it was cradled through all these long generations."
Sid paused a moment for second wind. "When we look
about we re bound to own this is a mighty changing
world. Time was when the mountain people rode to the
gatherings in Brushy Hollow in jolt wagons. They kept
it up a while, loading the whole family in the jolt wagon.
But times have changed. ... A body has to sort o keep
up with the times, like Prof. Koch. Bless you, he loads
his whole pack and passel of boys and girls in a bus and
Reclaiming the Wilderness 327
packs them hither and yon crost the country to show out
with their play-making. The Carolina Playmakers just
naturally fetch the mountain to Mohammed." Sid flung
wide his hands, brought them slowly together. "To get
all such folks to work together that s why we formed the
American Folkways Association. What s more we ve got
us a magazine to tell about what we ve done and aim to
do the Arcadian Life magazine, with our good friend
Otto Ernest Rayburn as editor, way down in the Ozarks."
Sid Hatfield smiled pleasantly. "There s no excuse for
folks not being neighborly nowadays. No matter where
they live, what with good roads and the automobile we ve
just got a-bound to be neighborly. To sing together, to
make music together, to show out our crops and our
posies and our handiwork together. Here in Snead s Grove
today is the third time we ve bore witness that our Asso
ciation is not just a theory. We made our first bow in the
Kentucky foothills in June, the second in Maryland in
August, and now in Tennessee, In October we aim to
join hands and hearts and our music in Arcadia under
the Autumn moon."
That day in Snead s Grove in Tennessee they wanted
Sid Hatfield to keep right on but taking a squint at the
sun sinking in the west, he said in conclusion, "I ve got a
long ways to travel back to the West Virginia mountains
but I hope we ll all be together again here in the Grove
next summer, this day a year, the Lord being willing."
VANISHING TRAIL
Perhaps it is merely the result of evolutionary process,
economic rather than intentional, that man has wiped out
many reminders of the past; that the forest primeval has
328 Blue Ridge Country
passed to make room for blue grass, tasseled corn, and
tobacco; that forts and blockhouses gave way to the set
tler s log house encircled by a garden patch; that the win-
dowless cabin has gone to make room for the weather-
boarded frame of many rooms and glass windows; that the
village has vanished for the town the industrial center.
The Wilderness Trail broken first by mastodon, then
panther and bear and frightened deer, has been trans
formed into a modern highway. The Shawnee Trail along
which Indians lurked and tomahawked white men has be
come Mayo Trail, taking its name from a country school
teacher. He was a far-seeing man, who stumbled sometimes
hopelessly along the lonely way, when he needed help to
bring out of the bowels of the earth the treasure in coal
he knew to be hidden there. Mayo Trail is an amazing
engineering feat that connects mountains with level land.
Limestone Trail in Mason County has left along its course
only a vestige of vegetation to remind us it was once the
path of buffalo and Indian. To motorists hurrying on
ward it is merely U. S. 60 that leads to another city.
The rugged, unbroken path once pursued by the lad
Gabriel Arthur, a Cherokee captive, called on Hutchins
Map in 1778 the "War Path to the Cuttawa Country,"
uniting today with the Wilderness Trails, has become the
open gateway to the West. Boone s Trace, or Boone s
Path, leading from Virginia through Cumberland Gap, to
the Ohio River, still is called Boone s Path. Since 1909 it
has been a national motorway, being a part of the Dixie
Highway which runs from Michigan to Florida. It was
over this same path that Governor Duncannon of Virginia
built the first wagon road in 1790. During the Civil War
the region of the Gap was fortified and occupied by Con
federate and Union soldiers in turn. Later, in 1889,
Reclaiming the Wilderness 329
first railroad entered the Gap. Today Skyline Highway
U. S. 25 and 58 leads from the saddle of the historic Gap
to the top of Pinnacle Mountain, commanding a view of
six states, Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina,
Georgia, and Alabama.
And the scene has changed.
Spring has come to the Blue Ridge. The hum of indus
try echoes along once lonely creeks, through quiet hollows.
We see no more the oxcart lumbering, creaking labori
ously along, higher and higher up the rugged mountain
side. The latest model motor glides swiftly over the smooth
surface, winding its way upward and upward. Off yonder
the TVA has harnessed the waterpower of the Holston and
Tennessee, made a great valley to burst into a miracle
of man s genius. Modern industrial plants steam along the
banks.
Good roads, the automobile, schoplhouses, the airplane
have wiped out all barriers between mountain and plain.
The Blue Ridge casts a long, long shadow across blossom
ing valleys. The mountaineer of yesterday with his Anglo-
Saxon speech of Elizabeth s time, his primitive plow and
loom, has vanished before the juggernaut of progress. But
the children of the hills are blessed with a rich, a price
less heritage in tradition, song, and love of independence
that will not die as long as mountains stand and men of
the mountains survive to defend and preserve it.
Index
Abingdon, Virginia, Declaration of,
3i-32
aborigines, 8
adventurers, 15
agriculture, x 13-21, 283-89
Alabama, 310
Alamance, Battle of, 28
Allegheny Mountains, 4
American Folk Song Festival, 241
American Folkways Association, 320-
27
animal life, 8
Appalachia, 3-4, 5
"Appalachia," by Martha Creech,
210
Apple Blossom Festival, 326
Arcadian Folk Festival, 326
Arcadian Guild, 326
Arcadian Life, 327
art exhibit, Kentucky, 250
Arthur, Gabriel, expedition of, 17-
18, 328
Ash Lawn, 293
"Ashland Tragedy, The," by Pey
ton Buckner Byrne, 228
Athiamiowee Trail, 9
Atlanta Journal, 319
Audubon Memorial State Park, 304
Bailey, "Mad Anne," 300
ballads, 132, 152, 154, 159, 210-47,
249, 306; and music, 43-44; patri
otic, 239-47
Baltimore, Lord, 7, 12
Bankhead-Jones Tenant Purchase
Act, 286
baptism, 60-61
Baptists, 161-64, 268; Regular Prim
itive, 161-64, 266
Bardstown, Kentucky, 304
Barker, George A., "Norris Dam,"
245; "Skyline Drive," 215
Barton, Bruce, 268
Barton, William E,, 268
beliefs, women s, 120-21
belting a tree, 113
Berea College, 259, 307
Berry Schools, 259, 307-10
Big Bone Lick, 8
Big Meeting, 57, 71
Big Sandy Breaks, 301
Big Sandy Improvement Associa
tion, 287
Big Sandy News, 286, 317
Big Sandy River, 4, 18, 19, 48, 116,
27 1* 304; canalization, 287; su
perstition, 168
"Big Sandy River," by D. Preston,
211
birds, 6-7
black cat, legend of, 189-94
Blackberry Association, 288
blessing the hounds, 305
blindness, conjured, 180-85
block houses, 22
blue grass country, 303
Blue Lick, 35
Blue Ridge Mountains, 4
Blue Ridge Parkway, 292
boats, river, 272
books, 16, 29, 34, 306
Boone, Daniel, 19, 21, 22-39, 295,
302; capture by Indians, and
escape, 35-36; death and grave, 39
Boone, Mrs. Daniel, 24-25
Boone s Trace (Trail; Path), 33, 328
Boonesborough, 35, 37, 39; Battle
of, 36
Braddock, General, 23
Breaks of the Big Sandy, 301
Breathitt County, Kentucky, 73, 74,
75. 79, 88, 316
Breckinridge, Alexander, 13, 261
Breckinridge, Mrs. Mary, 261
331
332
Index
Bryan, William Jennings, 314
Bryans, trek with Boone, 29-30
Buckley, Noah, 169-72
Buffum-Dillani feud, 88-91
"Bundles for Britain," by Jilson
Setters, 242
Burchett, Luke, "Jennie "Wylie," 219
Burning Spring, 21, 26, 270
Byrne, Peyton Buckner, "The Ash
land Tragedy," 228
CCC, 288, 290
CIO, 289-90
Callahan, Ed, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81,
82
Campbell, John C., Folk School,
259, 307
canalization, river, 287
candy pulling, 143-44
"Captain Jinks/ 147
Carolina Playmakers, 305-06, 326-
27
Carter, Nannie Hamm, "It s Great
to Be an American," 239
Casey, Robert J., 322
cat, black, legend of, 189-94
Catlettsburg, Kentucky, 116, 271-72
Caudill, Mrs. Lydia Messer, 250
caverns, 186, 292, 300, 303, 313
Cawood, Mrs. Herbert C., 283
Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 306
Charette, Missouri, 38
Cherokees, 18, 32, 312, 328; legend,
186-89
Chicago Daily News, 322 ,
Child, lost, finding of, 170-72
Christmas, Old and New, 158-61
"Church in the Mountains," by
Jessie Stewart, 222
church music, 268
churches, new, 266
cider press, old, 302
Civil War, 47, 55, 72, 231, 310, 313,
316, 328
Civilian Conservation Corps, 288,
290
claims, land, 32
climate, 7, 41
Clinch Valley, 30
coal mining, 250-51
coal mining and miners, yesterday
and today, 273-83
"Coal Queen," 283
Cockrell, James, 74-81
Cockrell-Hargis feud, 73-88
Collins, Floyd, 303; ballads of, 235,
237
Confederacy, White House, 310
Congress of Industrial Organiza
tions, 289-90
conjuring, 180-85
conservation, 288
Constitution, first American, 29
"convicts," early, 16
corn, grinding of, 112-13
Cornstalk, Chief, 300
corpse, winking, legend of, 203-05
country dances, 148
County Coal Operators Association,
283
courting and song, 122-34
cow, poisoned, 174-75
Craft, Uncle Chunk, 72-73
Crawford, Bruce, 294-99
Creech, Martha, "Appalachia," 210;
"The Robin s Red Breast," 218;
"Woman s Way," 226
Crisp, Adam, "Floyd Collins Fate,"
237
crocheting, 120-22
Crockett s Hollow, legend of, 180-
85
crops, 112-21
croup, curing, 171
crown, death, 177-78
Crystal Cave, 303
Cudo s Cave, 313
"Cumberland," origin of use of
name, 20
Cumberland Falls Park, 302-03
Cumberland Gap and Mountain, 4,
20, 26, 30, 33, 46, 313, 328-29
Cumberland Plateau, 4, 19
Cumberland River, 3, 19
customs, religious, 155-67
Cuttawa country, 17, 19
dancing, 145-50; modern, 264-65;
wedding, 153
Darrow, Clarence, 314
Davis, Esther Eugenia, "West Vir
ginia," 214
Davis, Jefferson, 310
Dayton, Tennessee, 314
death, omens of, 177-79
death crown, 177-78
Index
333
"Death of Mary Fagin, The," by
Bob Salyers, 232
Declaration of Abingdon, Virginia,
S 1 ^ 2
Declaration of Independence, 34
deer woman and fawn, legend of,
194-99
Delisle, map, 19
Dillam-Buffum feud, 88-91
dipping snuff, 289
divining rod, use of, 169-72
Dixie Highway, 328
doctor, mountain, ballad of, 223
doctor, wizard, 190
doctors, 173-74, 261
Donegal, Lord, 12
"Downfall of Paris, The," by Coby
Preston, 246
drives. See highways
Dug Down Mountains, ^105, 310
Duke, Effie and Richard, ballad of,
234
Duncannon, Governor, 328
Duquesne, Captain, 36
Eaton, Allen, Handicrafts of the
Southern Highlands, 306
education. See schools
electrification, rural, 263-64
Elizabeth, Queen, 10, 43
Evans, Lewis, map, 19
evolution trial, 314
excise laws, hatred of, 11, 43
explorers, 16
Fagin (Phagan), Mary, ballad of,
232
fairs, state, 284
families, large, 285-86
family honor, 106-11
Farm Security Administration, 284,
285, 286, 287
farming, 112-21, 283-89
"Fate of Effie and Richard Duke,
The, * by Coby Preston, 234
"Fate of Floyd Collins, The," by
Jilson Setters, 235
fauna, 8
feather, white, 178-79
festivals, 325-26
feuds, 45-111; ballad on, 216; van
ishing feudist, 248-55. See also
family names
fighting and singing, 317-27
Flanery, Mrs. Mary Elliott, 262-
63
flora, 5-6, 56
"Floyd Collins Fate," by Adam
Crisp, 237
Foley, Ben, 105-11
Foley, Jorde, 105-11
Foley Sods, 105
folk festivals, 325-26
folk lore, and conservation of, 320-
27
folk singing, 317-27
Folk Song Festival, 241
Folkways Association, American,
320-27
foot-washing, 161-64, 266, 268-69
Forest Festival, 325
forestry, 288
forests, national, 300, 301
Fort Boone, 39
fortunes and riddles, 135-50
fox hunting, 305
Frank, Leo M., ballad\of, 232
Franklin D. Roosevelt Highway, 309
Frazier s Knob, 302
Frontier Nursing School, 261
Fugate, Chester, 74-75
funeralizing, 155-58, 267
furs, 17, 19, 22
Future Farmer Association, 283
games, kissing, 144
Gandy Sinks, 300
Garrett, Aunt Sallie, 55-72
Garrett, William Dyke, 55-72, 201,
202, 295
Gentry, Pol, legend of, 189-94
geography song, 128-29
Georgia Warm Springs, 308-10
Good, Professor E. $., 303
"Good Shepherd of the Hills/ 55-
72
Great Kanawha River, 37
Great Meadows, and Battle of, 23,
26
Great Smoky Mountains National
Park, 292, 312-13
Green River, 19, 303
Greene, General Nathanael, 19
Greenup (Hangtown), Kentucky,
231
334
Index
Hamm family Eisteddfod, 239
handicrafts, 306-07
Handicrafts of the Southern High-
lands, by Allen Eaton, 306
Hangtown (Greenup), Kentucky,
231
Hargis, Beach, and murder of
father, 79, 82-87
Hargis, Elbert, 254-55
Hargis, Judge James, and murder
by son, 75-87
Hargis-Cockrell feud, 73-88
Harkins, Hugh, 269-70
Harkins, Walter Scott, 269-71
Harlan, Kentucky, 283
Harlan Mining Institute, 283
Hart, " Honest* John, 15
Hart, Nathaniel, 32
Hatfield, "Devil Anse," 46-67, 250;
anecdote of, 62-63; conversion
and baptism of, 63-67; ghost, 199-
202; statue of, 199-202; stories
told by, 49-54
Hatfield, Jonse, 251
Hatfield, Levisa Chafin, 46-72; grave,
200
Hatfield, Sid, 320-27
Hatfield, Tennis, 251
Hatfield burying ground, 199-202
Hatfield-McCoy feud, 46-72
Hatfields and McCoys, reunion, 254-
55; singing together, 317-27
haunted house, legend of, 205-09
Hedrick, Ray, and his "haunted
house," 205-09
Henderson, Archibald, 305
Henderson, Richard, 32, 37
Hennepin, Louis, 18
Henry, Patrick, 30
highways, 291-93, 309, 315, 328, 329
hill people, tribute to, 322-25
"hill-billies," 41-42
Hindman Settlement School, 259
Hodgenville, Kentucky, 304
Holden, West Virginia, 282-83
Hols ton River, 17, 33
home industry, 117-19, 262, 306-07
honor, family, 107-11
horses, race, 303-04
hospitality, 42
hounds, blessing of the, 305
house with the green gables, legend
of, 205-09
hunters and trappers, 17
Huraken and Manuita, legend of,
186-89
Hutchins, Thomas, map, 19, 228
hymns, 66, 67, 70-71, 157-58, 162-63
illiteracy, 40; adult, school for, 260
improvements, modern, 263-64
Indents, 15
independence, spirit of, 286
Indians, 9-10, 13, 15, 17, 18, 21-22,
28, 30, 33, 35; legend, 186-89;
picture language, 9-10; ways and
customs, 9-10
industry, home, 117-19, 262, 306-07
infantile paralysis, 308-10
infare wedding, 151-54
Ireland, English invasion of, 10-11;
oppression of, 11-12
"It s Great to Be an American, * by
Nannie Hamm Carter, 239
Jack Knife Shop, 307
~ames I of England, 10
fames, Frank, 49, 51-52
Jefferson, Thomas, 293
Jefferson National Forest, 301
"Jennie Wylie," by Luke Burchett,
219
Jett, Curt, 74-81, 88
John C. Campbell Folk School, 259,
307
Jones-Wright feud, 73
Kentucky, art exhibit, 250; begin
ning of colonization, 32; first
white man in, 18; past, com
memoration of, 301-02
Kentucky Progress Magazine, 259
Kentucky River, 18, 19, 33, 35
Kentucky Woodlands Wildlife Ref
uge, 3&lt;&gt;5
Kernersville, North Carolina, 306
killings, 42, 43
kissing games, 144
Koch, "Prof.," 1 305-06, 326-27
labor, coal-mine, yesterday and to
day, 273-83
land claims, 32
Land of Saddle-Bags, The, by Dr.
James Watt Raine, 16, 34
land-purchase program, 286
Index
335
land reclamation, 284
Lawton, John and Dessie, story of,
58-59 c . ,
learning. See schools
legends, 180-209, 218
Levi Jackson Wilderness Road State
Park, 302
Levisa River. See Louisa River
Limestone Path, 9, 328
Lincoln, Abraham, 304
Little Theatre, 305-06
Logan Wildcats, 47, 55
logging and loggers, 5-6, 112-17, 270,
271-72, 288; superstition, 168
London bombing, ballad on, 241
Louisa (Levisa) River, 21, 46
"Love of Rosanna McCoy, The," by
Coby Preston, 216
Loyal Land Company, 19-21, 49
lumbering. See logging
lynchings, 74, 96-97
Main Island Creek, 250
Mammoth Cave and National Park,
288, 303
Man o War, 303
Manuita and Huraken, legend of,
186-89
maps, and making of, 18-19, 328
Marcum, James B,, 74-81
marriages. See Weddings
Martha Berry Schools, 259, 307-10
Martin-Tolliver feud, 91-104, 203-
05; end of, 249
May, A. J., 287
Mays, John Caldwell Calhoun, 2^3
Mayo (Shawnee) Trail, 301, 317,
322, 328
McCoy, Harmon, 46
McCoy-Hatfield feud, 46-72
McCoys and Hatfields, reunion of,
254-55" singing together, 317-27
McGuffey, Dr. William Holmes,
Readers, and shrine, 128, 289, 304
Mclntyre, O. O., 267
McNeely, Reverend John, 70
Mecklenburg, North Carolina, Res
olutions, 22, 34
medicine, 261
Meeting, Big, 57, 71
meetings, religious, 155
memorials, 267
men, mountain, 269-72
minerals and soil, 8
mining, coal. See Coal
Model Star, The, 314
Monongahela National Forest, 300
Monroe, James, 293
Monroe, Lucy, 318
Monticello, Virginia, 293
Moonlight School, 260
"moonshine," 43, 46-111, 248, 255-
58; origin of, 11
Morehead, Kentucky, 249-50
Morgan, General John, Hunt, 72
Morgan s Riflemen, 34
Mosley, Pleaz, Zooseum, 311
mound builders, 8, 9
Mountain Choir Festival, 326
"Mountain Doctor," by Jilson Set
ters, 223
Mountain Laurel Festival, 325
"Mountain Preacher," by D. Pres
ton, 221
"Mountain Singers," by Rachel
Mack Wilson, 228
"Mountain State" (West Virginia),
294-300
"Mountain Woman," by John W.
Preble, Jr., 225
mountaineers, the, 40-45
Mountaineer s Museum, 313
mountains, 4-5
murders, 42, 43 ,
museums, 311, 313
music, and ballads, 43-44; church,
268
Neely, Matthew M., 295, 297
neighborliness, 44-45
Nelson s Riflemen, 34
New Light, 164-67
"Norris Dam/ by George A. Barker,
245
North Carolina, settlement, 21-22,
26-29
Nursing School, Frontier, 261
"Oh, Brother, Will You Meet Mel"
157
oil, 270-71
Old Buffalo Path, 9
"Old Time Waterfront," by Coby
Preston, 213
omens t&gt;f death, 177-79
oratory, 155
336
Index
paleontology, 8
Paris, downfall of, ballad on, 246
Park-to-Park Highway, 291-93
parks, national and state, 288, 291,
292, 302-03, 304, 312-13
parkways. See highways
Partlow, Deborah, story of, 60-61
paths. See trails
patriotic ballads, 239-47 ,
Pearl, William, 302
Pennsylvania, Proprietors of, 13
people of the Blue Ridge, 10
petroleum, 270-71
Phagan (Fagin), Mary, ballad of,
232
physicians, 261
picture language, Indian, 9-10
Piedmont Plateau, 4
pig, bewitched, 189-94
Pilot Knob, 26
Pinnacle Mountain, 329
pioneers, 10
play-game songs, 145-48
play-making, 305-06
Playmakers Theatre, 306
poems, mountain, 210-47
Poets Fair, 326
"Pop Goes the Weasel," 148-50
poteen, 11, 43
Powell Valley, 30
preachers, mountain, 267-69
Preble, John E., Jr., "Mountain
Woman," 225
Preston, Goby, "Old Time Water
front," 213; "The Downfall of
Paris," 246; "The Fate of Effie
and Richard Duke," 234; "The
Love of Rosanna McCoy," 216
Preston, D., "Big Sandy River,"
211; "Mountain Preacher," 221
Prestonsburg, Kentucky, 272
Primitive Baptists, Regular, 161-64,
266
products of the soil, 112-21
progress, gains and losses by, 264-
69
Proprietors, Pennsylvania, 13
public works, 274-83
purchase, land, program for, 286
quilts, 120-21; poem on, 226
quitrents, 13-14
race horses, 303-04
Raine, Dr. James Watt, The Land
of Saddle-Bags, 16, 34
rainfall, 7
Rangers, 21-22, 27
Rayburn, Otto Ernest, 327
reclaiming the wilderness, 248-329
reclamation, soil, 284
"recorder, the," 43
redemptioners, 15
Reffitt, Aunt Lindie, 135-43
reforestation, 288
Refuge, Kentucky Wildlife, 305
Regular Primitive Baptists, 161-64,
266
Regulators, 27, 28
religious customs, 155-67
rent system, 13-14
reptiles, 7
Revolutionary War, 34; battle mon
ument, 300; commemorating, 290
Rhododendron Festival, 326
riddles and fortunes, 135-50
river boats, 272
river improvement, 287
rivers, 3-4
roads, improvement of, 286, 287
Robertson, James, expedition of,
27-29
"Robin s Red Breast, The," by
Martha Creech, 218
Robinson, Reverend Felix, 321-22
Rockcastle River, 18
Rockefeller, John D., Jr., 294
Roosevelt, Franklin D., Highway,
309
Roosevelt, Theodore, The Winning
of the West; 29
Rowan County, Kentucky, 92, 250-
51, 260; art exhibit, 250
"Rowan County Troubles, The,"
249
rug-making, 262
rural electrification, 263-64
Russell, Captain William, 29
Russell Cave Road, 303
"Sad London Town," by Jilson Set
ters, 241
Saint Valentine Day charm, 136-37
salt licks, 8
Saltpeter, Cave, 186
Index
337
Salyers, Bob, "The Death of Mary
Fagin," 232
Sand Cave, 303
Schindler, Kurt, 319
schools, 258-62. See also names of
schools and colleges
Scopes trial, 314
Scotch-Irish, 10-14, 31
Seneca Caverns, 300
"Sergeant York," by Jilson Setters,
Setters, Jilson, and his ballads:
"Bundles for Britain/ 248;
"Mountain Doctor," 223; "Sad
London Town," 241; "Sergeant
York," 243; "The Fate of Floyd
Collins," 235
settlers, 10
Sewell, Willie, 73
Shawnee (Mayo) Trail, 9, 301, 317,
322, 328
Shawnees, 18, 19
Shelby, Isaac, 302
Shenandoah Community Workers,
306
Shenandoah National Park, 291, 292
Shenandoah Valley, 4, 13
showboat, 116-17
silver mine, lost, legend of, 186-89
Silver Moon Tavern, 251-55
silver tomahawk, legend of, 186-89
singing and songs, courting, 133-34;
folk, 317-27; Gatherings, 317-27;
geography song, 128-29; moun
tain, 210-47; mountain, poem on,
228; play-game, 145-48; school,
Philomel Whiffet s, 122-34; socie
ties, 266
Skyline Caverns, 292
Skyline Drive, 291-93, 329
"Skyline Drive," by George A.
Barker, 215
Smith, Kate, 260
snakes, 7; use in religious services,
and bites, 164-67
Snead, Grady, and his picnic, 321,
326, 327
Snow Bird, legend of, 300
snuff, dipping, 289
soil, and minerals, 8; products of,
112-21; reclamation, 284.
aongs. See singing and songs
Sorghum Association, 287
sorghum making, 118-19
Spanish -American War, 316
"speakings," 155
Speleological Society, 300
Spring, Burning, 21, 26, 270
Spurlock Station, 272
Stamper, Fred, 317
Stewart, Mrs. Cora Wilson, 260
Stewart, Jessie, "Church in the
Mountains," 222
stills. See "moonshine"
superstitions, 168-79, l8 &gt; 181
surgery, primitive, 173-74
Sweet Potato Festival, 326
Swindle Cave, 186
TVA, 311-12
taffy pulling, 143-44
Talbott Tavern, 304
Taylor, Fiddling Bob, 290
Taylor, Folsom, 321
tenant purchase program, 286
Tennessee, 311-17; first permanent
- settlement, 26
Tennessee River, 3, 4, 19
Tennessee Valley Authority, 311-12
Theatre, Little, 305-06
Thomas, Reverend James M., 314
timber. See logging
Tiptons, the, legend of, 180-85
Tobacco Festival, 325
Tolliver-Martin feud, 91-104, 203-
05; end of, 249
tomahawk, silver, legend of, 186-89
topography, 8
tradition, 122-54
trails, 9-10, 17, 19, 20, 26, 33, 39,
273&gt; 328
Traipsing Woman cabin, 322-23
Transylvania, and Company, 32-35,
36-38 *
trappers and hunters, 17
trees, 5-6; belting, 113. See also
lumber
turkey refuge, 304-05
"Twa Sisters," 152
Unaka Mountains, 5
Valley of Parks, 302
Valley of Virginia, 17
"Vauxhall Dance," 50
Virginia Apple Blossom Festival, 326
338
Index
Virginia reel, 148-50
vote, women s, 263
WPA, 289
Walker, Dr. Thomas, expeditions
of, 19-21, 46, 49, 270, 301
Warm Springs, Georgia, 308-10
Warrior s Path, 9, 17, 19, 20, 26, 33,
273
Washington, George, 23, 34, 292,
296
Watauga Association, 29, 290
Watauga country, 25; settlement of,
26-29
Watauga River, 32
water-witch, 169-72
watercourses, 7
Weave Shop, 306
weavers, Wilderness Road, 302
weddings, infare, 151-54; on horse
back, unlucky, 172-77
WeUford, Clate, 274-83
wells, finding, 169-72
West Virginia, 294-300
"West Virginia," by Esther Eugenia
Davis, 214
West Virginia Review, 295
"Whiffet, Philomel, singing school,
122-34
whiskey, 11, 43. See also "moon
shine"
white feather, 178-79
Whittlers, 307
whittling, 259
wilderness, reclaiming, 248-329
Wilderness Road Weavers, 302
Wilderness Trail, 33, 39, 328
Wildlife Refuge, Kentucky, 305
Williamsburg, Virginia, 294
winking corpse, legend of, 203-05
Winning of the West, The, by The-
odore Roosevelt, 29
witch, legend of, 189-94
witchcraft, 180-85
wizard doctor, 190
woman, mountain, 262-64, 272;
poems on, 225, 226; work, 117-21,
263-64
woman suffrage, 262
"Woman s Way," by Martha Creech,
226
Wood, Colonel Abraham, 17
Woodcrafters and Carvers, 307
Works Progress Administration, 289
works, public, 274-83
World War, 316, 317
Wright, Judge William, 260
Wright- Jones feud, 73
Wylie, Jennie, ballad of, 219
Yadkin River, 4
York, Sergeant Alvin C., 295, 314-
16; ballad of, 243; school, 259,
315
York Highway, 315
Yorktown, Virginia, 294
Young, Judge Will, 88
younger generation, the, 264-66
Zimmerman, Dr. C. C., 285
Zooseum, Mosley s, 311
102539